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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seagulls are everywhere we go in the Bay Area; swooping into Giants games, crowding runways at San Jose airport and eyeing tourists’ ice cream cones at the Ferry Building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To many, they’re a nuisance — not worth a second thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But to ecologists, the California gulls represent the textbook problem of managing wildlife in a world increasingly altered by humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The California gulls are one of the most interesting stories going on right now,” said Nathan Van Schmidt, a science director at the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory.\u003cbr>\n[ad fullwidth]\u003cbr>\nThat’s because in the past 45 years, California gull numbers have exploded, leaving local ecologists scratching their heads about how to mitigate their impact on other bird species.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding fertile new breeding grounds\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To the casual eye, most gulls look alike, but there are actually many types flying around the Bay Area; Bonaparte’s gulls, ring-billed gulls, herring gulls, western gulls and California gulls, to name a few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most common — and abundant — are the western and California gulls. They’re hard to tell apart, but western gulls are slightly bigger with pink legs instead of yellow. California gulls have always been seasonal foragers on our shores during the winter, but they’ve recently become year-round residents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040234\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040234\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A nesting California gull protects its nest during a nest survey conducted by the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Historically, California gulls bred on inland saline lakes of the Mountain West during the warmer months. The gulls are considered an iconic species at California’s Mono Lake on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains. There, they found the protection of a landmass within Mono Lake called Negit Island, where they raised their young in ground nests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But \u003ca href=\"https://www.asce.org/publications-and-news/civil-engineering-source/civil-engineering-magazine/article/2023/08/debate-centers-on-diversions-from-californias-mono-lake-basin\">since 1941, the city of Los Angeles has diverted water from the area\u003c/a>, causing lake levels to drop. In 1979, a land bridge appeared from the shore of Mono Lake out to Negit Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Coyotes made it out to Negit Island and chased the gulls,” said Bartshe Miller, policy director with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.monolake.org/\">Mono Lake Committee\u003c/a>, which is trying to protect the gigantic saline lake ecosystem. “They predated on their eggs and chicks, and the gulls abandoned the nest.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next year, scientists discovered the breeding colony in the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of gulls probably just decided, well, it’s not safe to nest at Mono Lake. And maybe they figured out there were opportunities in the South Bay,” Miller said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Gulls are voracious predators\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>More than 40,000 California gulls now raise their young in the South Bay every year — up from a few dozen when they were discovered in 1980. At their peak in \u003ca href=\"https://www.southbayrestoration.org/sites/default/files/documents/2019_sfbbo_colonial_waterbird_report.pdf\">2013, there were more than 50\u003c/a> thousand gulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory counts them every year, keeping track of their number and impact on the local ecosystem.[aside postID=news_12050357 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-11-BL-KQED.jpg']Counting them is not easy. Scientists and volunteers must wear waterproof jackets and hard hats to protect themselves from dive bombs and projectile-poop. They walk through swarms of birds, careful not to slip on the muddy levees, counting the eggs in each ground nest. The eggs are seafoam green with little brown speckles, each a little larger than a chicken egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that California gulls have made the Bay Area their year-round home, wildlife managers are concerned about how they’re impacting other native bird species. They feast on the eggs and chicks of birds like the threatened snowy plover, least terns, American avocets and black-necked stilts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They are pretty voracious,” said Van Schmidt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In just a few decades, the California gulls have become one of the threatened plover’s biggest predators, destroying as much as a third of their young in some years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A gull management plan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About a decade ago, when the number of gulls was at their highest, wildlife managers decided their threat to local native birds was too great.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were getting really concerned that this population was just spiraling out of control and wanting to get them away from these really sensitive species,” said Van Schmidt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040226\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040226\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nathan Van Schmidt, science director with the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory, prepares to lead a team on a California gull nest survey near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They destroyed the gulls’ nests and eggs on the levees and initiated a long-term strategy to keep their population in check — depriving them of food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Newby Island landfill stretches over hundreds of acres right next to the South Bay salt ponds. Gulls feasted on the trash piles, a major reason their population ballooned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the dump hired a falconer to chase the birds away for 10 hours a day.[aside postID=news_12046670 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/MonoLakeGullsGetty1.jpg']Max Ottersbach, of \u003ca href=\"https://wingmasterfalconry.com/\">Wingmaster Falconry\u003c/a>, has a number of tactics to keep the birds from feeding. He flies three different falcons, employs two bird-chasing dogs and drives around on an ATV with a 16-foot flag waving above him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When the birds see the ATV and they see the flag and they see the dogs, they know that the danger is in the area,” said Ottersbach. “It’s all a big show to make my presence known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Early on, wildlife managers tried air cannons and even pyrotechnics to scare the gulls. But Ottersbach said only the threat from living creatures keeps the birds uncomfortable. While they no longer nest or rest at the dump, Ottersbach said, relocating them permanently is a long-term project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s gonna take multiple generations of seagulls learning that this just isn’t a place that they can come for a food source anymore,” said Ottersbach.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What does the future hold for the gulls?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Van Schmidt credits the falconer’s work at the landfill for the modest decrease in the California gull population over the last decade. But scientists don’t know whether the gulls are going somewhere else or just making fewer babies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Bay Area agencies try to keep California gull numbers down, Mono Lake advocates are tirelessly working to get their numbers up by trying to limit water diversions to Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040231\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040231\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nests of California gull eggs are tucked in the grass during a survey conducted by the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maintaining a large breeding colony at Mono Lake is not only good for the birds, said Bartshe Miller of the Mono Lake Committee, but it’s also a harbinger of a healthy and diverse local ecosystem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12046670/mono-lake-could-be-losing-its-california-gulls\">But in 2024, only a few hundred chicks were born at the lake\u003c/a>, the worst California gull breeding season on record. Miller said the birds belong there, where they don’t do harm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The gulls aren’t preying on other birds here,” Miller said. “There aren’t other birds nesting at Mono Lake that gulls prey on. So this is the place for them to be.”[aside postID=news_12048156 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/Hearst_Castle_Neptune_Pool_sized.jpg']California gulls present wildlife managers with an interesting quandary; they’re not thriving in their historic native breeding ground, but are flourishing in a human-engineered habitat and harming other species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ecologists are still debating the best way to manage “native invasive” species like California gulls going forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the challenge of trying to conserve multiple species on a shrinking set of habitats, where human transformation of California has been so dramatic,” Van Schmidt said. “We have to figure out how to manage that and how to balance these competing needs of all these different species.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the meantime, there have been some biodiversity wins with native birds in the Bay Area. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfbbo.org/wingbeat/an-update-on-snowy-plovers\">threatened snowy plovers are slowly making a comeback\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Seagulls are everywhere we go in the Bay Area, swooping into Giants games at Oracle Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip from Giant’s game:\u003c/strong> Hey, the seagulls are here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Making it difficult for planes to take off at the San Jose Airport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>1118, just hit a bird, emergency returning to San Jose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And generally being a nuisance, ask almost anyone who has eaten anything outside, and they’ll have a seagull story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alicia Aschauer: \u003c/strong>One summer day, we were having a picnic, and my dad was grilling, and one seagull just swooped down and took an entire hamburger patty that was cooking on the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Annie Fruit:\u003c/strong> Classic SF State lunchtime scenario, get an awesome student union burrito. Go outside to eat it. Sit down. Seagull swoops in and takes a huge bite. Absolutely disgusting, burrito ruined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>William Wallis: \u003c/strong>One afternoon I was sitting in behind the Ferry Building enjoying my lunch. A couple of visitors to our city were walking around enjoying ice cream cones. Out of nowhere, a seagull swooped down and took one of the scoops of ice cream atop one of their cones and flew off with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And of course, there’s the poop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charlotte Cheng: \u003c/strong>I was a first-grade teacher at Audubon Elementary in Foster City. It was right along the bay, so there were tons of seagulls. And for my little kids, they lined up after recess right alongside those handball courts. And when I went to pick up the kids, one of them was just standing in shock, covered in seagull poop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Seagulls have been making their presence known in the Bay Area over the last couple decades. And no, it’s not your imagination; there are more of them. That got one Bay Curious listener wondering, are seagulls native to the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think they’re dirty and pests, others find them majestic. Today’s episode is all about the California gull. We’ll take you on an expedition to count gulls, explore how these birds can be both native and invasive at the same time, and learn what ecologists are doing to keep their numbers in check. I’m Katrina Schwartz, and this is Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>There are many different species of gulls flying around the Bay Area. The most common are the Western and California gulls. While both have always foraged on our shores, the California gulls used to only be seasonal visitors, but recently, they’ve become year-round residents. KQED’s Pauline Bartolone tells us why that’s a problem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>So, to answer our question-asker, are California gulls native? The answer is yes, native to the state. But when you zoom into the Bay Area, that’s when the answer gets more complex. The gulls have always come to eat on our shores during the winter, but several decades ago, they started breeding here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> Right now, we are at the salt ponds in Newark, California, next to Coyote Hills Regional Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>That’s Nathan van Schmidt of the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory. His organization has been counting bird nests here in the shallow southernmost tip of the bay for more than 40 years. Before then, these birds never bred on the levees and islands here. Then one day in 1980, they just showed up and laid eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>A breeding colony was discovered of just a few dozen of these California gulls out on historic salt pond habitats, and that looked just like their native habitat for breeding. So probably because of that, the birds started breeding there, and over the next few decades, just exploded in size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At their peak in 2013, there were more than 50,000 gulls. Nathan’s group tracks their numbers to see if they’re harming other creatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On this wet spring morning, the gulls are in dense colonies along the pond’s edges. The birds don’t care that humans created these ponds in the bay to make commercial table salt. The gulls just like the saline water where they can feast on brine shrimp and flies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> These ponds in particular are some of our stinkiest ponds. There’s one or two spots out on this pond where there’s some bubbles that you can see methane coming up, all that good wetland stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Nathan, at least six feet tall, stands in knee-high rubber boots with clipboard in hand, he explains to a small circle of volunteers how to help count the gulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> Here we are going to be tallying the number of nests. So empty nest, one egg, two eggs, three eggs, four eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The count is not an easy task, especially today. It rained this morning, and volunteers struggled to find steady footing in the mud near the nest sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Volunteer: \u003c/strong>Oh god, I’m really slipped in the mud here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>Who has clickers? Somebody’s gonna need to have two clickers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Long-sleeved waterproof jackets and hard hats are a must out here. The gulls attack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>We need hard hats, because the gulls are quite defensive of their colonies, they will be dive bombing us. They will be bombing us with poop. I am pretty sure that is intentional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> As Nathan walks toward the nests and the levee flanked by his volunteers, the pace of the count picks up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Volunteers:\u003c/strong> One egg, one egg, one egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little nests are scattered all over the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> We’ll do 1e, 1d, e for that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The eggs are sea foam green with brown speckles. They’re a little bit bigger than a chicken egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>They’re sizable. They were historically eaten in large numbers by both native people of California and folks during the Gold Rush times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>It’’s a chaotic scene, walking into a swarm of birds. You have to watch where you step. There are a lot of bird poop splats, white splats everywhere. And beware of those swooping down from above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> That’s the attack call, if you hear it, one of them right now is going for me repeatedly, and it’s a little more ‘ehhh.’\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The gulls also attack each other, protecting their chicks from hungry fellow breeders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> They’re pretty aggressive with each other. We will see them out there chasing each other around, defending their nests from each other. The other birds in the colony are the biggest threat to their nests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Scientists are keeping tabs on the gull population because while they breed in the bay, they prey on their neighbors, other native birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> They are pretty voracious nest predators. There are threatened species like snowy plovers that are breeding in San Francisco Bay, and there are also least terns, American avocets, black-necked stilts. They all like the islands because they’re safe from mammalian predators. But then the avian predators, like the California gulls, can be an issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The gulls have quickly become one of the threatened plovers, biggest predators, destroying as much as a third of their young in some years. The California gulls have only been breeding in San Francisco Bay for 45 years. So, where did they raise their young before?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> California gulls are definitely an iconic part of the Mono Basin. I think they’ve been nesting here for centuries and centuries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bartshe Miller lives on the eastern side of the Sierra near the border of Nevada. He’s a scientist with the Mono Lake committee, an organization trying to protect the gigantic saline lake. While scientists in the Bay Area want to keep California numbers down, Bartshe’s group is working full-time to bring their numbers back up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller: \u003c/strong>They’re beautiful birds to look at. They soar all over Mono Lake in the eastern Sierra. And every time they show up each year, it marks the passage of time and the seasons, and it tells us that they’re showing up, getting ready to breed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Gulls are migratory, so historically, these birds foraged for food on the coast during the winter and then returned to breed and raise their young on inland saline lakes in the spring and summer. At Mono Lake, gulls found a safe place to make their nests on Negit Island, nesting on the ground there. But for decades, the lake level has been dropping, and one year, a land bridge appeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller: \u003c/strong>A lot of the surrounding lake bottom was exposed. And by 1979, coyotes made it out to Negit Island and chased the gulls. I mean, they predated on their eggs and chicks, and the gulls abandoned the nests on Negit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Water levels at Mono Lake have been dropping for a long time, since at least 1941, when streams flowing to the lake were diverted to serve the city of Los Angeles. With the lake level still nine feet below what they should be, the habitat isn’t the reliable and safe breeding ground the gulls once knew.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> But I think there was this point in time where a lot of gulls probably just decided, well, it’s not safe to nest at Mono Lake.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>In 2024, only a few 100 chicks were born at Mono Lake, the worst California gull breeding season on record. But Mono Lake advocates say limiting water diversions to Los Angeles is critical to maintain an important breeding ground for the gulls and to preserve the area’s biodiversity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> There is a strong ecological link to the health of the gulls and the health of the lake’s ecosystem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bartshe says these gulls belong at Mono Lake. They don’t do harm there like they do in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> There’s been this evolutionary circumstances that’s going around here where the gulls aren’t preying on other birds here. There aren’t other birds nesting at Mono Lake that gulls prey on, so this is the place for them to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>When it was no longer safe to breed at the traditional spot on Negit Island and Mono Lake, the gulls moved on to San Francisco Bay. When their number peaked a little over a decade ago, wildlife managers decided their threat to local native birds was too great. They started destroying the gulls’ nests and eggs on the levees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>We’re getting really concerned this population were just spiraling out of control and wanting to get them away from these really sensitive species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But that was a short-term fix. They needed another strategy to tamp down on the gulls, deprive them of food. There’s a huge landfill right next to the salt ponds in the South Bay, a major reason their population exploded. The Newby Island landfill stretches over hundreds of acres. Basically, it’s a giant smorgasbord for seagulls. So about a decade ago, the dump hired one man whose full-time job is chasing the birds off trash piles. Max Ottersbach is a falconer, and that’s him talking to one of his birds of prey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach:\u003c/strong> I have three falcons, and each one flies one, two hours, and I try to spread that out throughout the day, for 10 hours a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He and his menagerie of raptors and dogs scare away the seagulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>The falcon goes up, tries to get above them as best he can, or flies towards the flock to disperse the seagulls that are in the air.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Landfill managers wouldn’t allow us to visit the dump, but we asked Max to record himself with all of his anti-gull props. The falcons are just one of his strategies. He drives around the dump on an ATV with a flag flying 16 feet in the air. Then his dogs chase after the birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach:\u003c/strong> When the birds see the ATV, and they see the flag, and they see the dogs, they know that the danger is in the area. It’s all a big show to make, to make my presence known to the seagulls that we’re here and ready to rock and roll.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Max says it can feel overwhelming out there fighting a constant tide of hundreds of birds that descend on trash heaps over and over again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>Seagulls are, are a force of nature. But the good thing is about seagulls is they don’t really act individually; they act in a flock. So if you can get one bird to go, then the chances of the other one going is going to be greater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Early on, wildlife managers tried air cannons and even pyrotechnics to scare the gulls. But Max says the primal fear of living creatures is what works best. So after a decade of being chased by his dogs and falcons, the gulls aren’t nesting or resting at the dump anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>It’s all about the long game with this project, I feel, you know, these birds are here. They’ve migrated into the bay. And so you know it’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to take multiple generations of seagulls learning that this just isn’t a place that they can come for a food source anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Nathan from the Bird Observatory says the falconer’s job may be an odd one, but it’s working. The number of breeding gulls in the South Bay is still in the 10s of 1000s, but there are fewer than the peak of over 50,000. Are the gulls going somewhere else or just making fewer babies? Scientists don’t really know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nathan says, California goals are in a weird spot. They’re not thriving at Mono Lake, their native breeding grounds, and they’re harmful to other species here in the Bay Area. There are no clear answers, he says, about the best way to manage these gulls in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>It’s the challenge of trying to conserve multiple species on a shrinking set of habitats where human transformation of California has been so dramatic. They’ve all concentrated in this weird anthropogenic habitat in South Bay, and now we have to figure out how to manage that and how to balance these competing needs of all these different species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>In the short term, there have been biodiversity wins in the Bay Area. The threatened snowy plovers, which decades ago suddenly fell prey to new gull neighbors, are slowly making a comeback.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone. Thanks to Alicia Aschauer, Annie Fruit, William Wallis and Charlotte Cheng for sharing the seagull stories you heard at the top of the episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’ve been enjoying Bay Curious, please consider leaving us a review in your favorite podcast app or tell a friend about the show. Both are great ways for new people to find out about us, and thank you so much for doing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco, Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"title": "Are California Gulls Native or Invasive to the Bay Area? Maybe Both | KQED",
"description": "For almost 50 years, seagulls have been breeding in South Bay salt ponds, upending the local bird ecosystem.",
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"headline": "Are California Gulls Native or Invasive to the Bay Area? Maybe Both",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seagulls are everywhere we go in the Bay Area; swooping into Giants games, crowding runways at San Jose airport and eyeing tourists’ ice cream cones at the Ferry Building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To many, they’re a nuisance — not worth a second thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But to ecologists, the California gulls represent the textbook problem of managing wildlife in a world increasingly altered by humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The California gulls are one of the most interesting stories going on right now,” said Nathan Van Schmidt, a science director at the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory.\u003cbr>\n\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cbr>\nThat’s because in the past 45 years, California gull numbers have exploded, leaving local ecologists scratching their heads about how to mitigate their impact on other bird species.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding fertile new breeding grounds\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To the casual eye, most gulls look alike, but there are actually many types flying around the Bay Area; Bonaparte’s gulls, ring-billed gulls, herring gulls, western gulls and California gulls, to name a few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The most common — and abundant — are the western and California gulls. They’re hard to tell apart, but western gulls are slightly bigger with pink legs instead of yellow. California gulls have always been seasonal foragers on our shores during the winter, but they’ve recently become year-round residents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040234\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040234\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-37-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A nesting California gull protects its nest during a nest survey conducted by the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Historically, California gulls bred on inland saline lakes of the Mountain West during the warmer months. The gulls are considered an iconic species at California’s Mono Lake on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains. There, they found the protection of a landmass within Mono Lake called Negit Island, where they raised their young in ground nests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But \u003ca href=\"https://www.asce.org/publications-and-news/civil-engineering-source/civil-engineering-magazine/article/2023/08/debate-centers-on-diversions-from-californias-mono-lake-basin\">since 1941, the city of Los Angeles has diverted water from the area\u003c/a>, causing lake levels to drop. In 1979, a land bridge appeared from the shore of Mono Lake out to Negit Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Coyotes made it out to Negit Island and chased the gulls,” said Bartshe Miller, policy director with the \u003ca href=\"https://www.monolake.org/\">Mono Lake Committee\u003c/a>, which is trying to protect the gigantic saline lake ecosystem. “They predated on their eggs and chicks, and the gulls abandoned the nest.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The next year, scientists discovered the breeding colony in the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A lot of gulls probably just decided, well, it’s not safe to nest at Mono Lake. And maybe they figured out there were opportunities in the South Bay,” Miller said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Gulls are voracious predators\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>More than 40,000 California gulls now raise their young in the South Bay every year — up from a few dozen when they were discovered in 1980. At their peak in \u003ca href=\"https://www.southbayrestoration.org/sites/default/files/documents/2019_sfbbo_colonial_waterbird_report.pdf\">2013, there were more than 50\u003c/a> thousand gulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory counts them every year, keeping track of their number and impact on the local ecosystem.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Counting them is not easy. Scientists and volunteers must wear waterproof jackets and hard hats to protect themselves from dive bombs and projectile-poop. They walk through swarms of birds, careful not to slip on the muddy levees, counting the eggs in each ground nest. The eggs are seafoam green with little brown speckles, each a little larger than a chicken egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now that California gulls have made the Bay Area their year-round home, wildlife managers are concerned about how they’re impacting other native bird species. They feast on the eggs and chicks of birds like the threatened snowy plover, least terns, American avocets and black-necked stilts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They are pretty voracious,” said Van Schmidt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In just a few decades, the California gulls have become one of the threatened plover’s biggest predators, destroying as much as a third of their young in some years.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A gull management plan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About a decade ago, when the number of gulls was at their highest, wildlife managers decided their threat to local native birds was too great.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were getting really concerned that this population was just spiraling out of control and wanting to get them away from these really sensitive species,” said Van Schmidt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040226\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040226\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-05-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nathan Van Schmidt, science director with the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory, prepares to lead a team on a California gull nest survey near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They destroyed the gulls’ nests and eggs on the levees and initiated a long-term strategy to keep their population in check — depriving them of food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Newby Island landfill stretches over hundreds of acres right next to the South Bay salt ponds. Gulls feasted on the trash piles, a major reason their population ballooned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the dump hired a falconer to chase the birds away for 10 hours a day.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Max Ottersbach, of \u003ca href=\"https://wingmasterfalconry.com/\">Wingmaster Falconry\u003c/a>, has a number of tactics to keep the birds from feeding. He flies three different falcons, employs two bird-chasing dogs and drives around on an ATV with a 16-foot flag waving above him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When the birds see the ATV and they see the flag and they see the dogs, they know that the danger is in the area,” said Ottersbach. “It’s all a big show to make my presence known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Early on, wildlife managers tried air cannons and even pyrotechnics to scare the gulls. But Ottersbach said only the threat from living creatures keeps the birds uncomfortable. While they no longer nest or rest at the dump, Ottersbach said, relocating them permanently is a long-term project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s gonna take multiple generations of seagulls learning that this just isn’t a place that they can come for a food source anymore,” said Ottersbach.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>What does the future hold for the gulls?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Van Schmidt credits the falconer’s work at the landfill for the modest decrease in the California gull population over the last decade. But scientists don’t know whether the gulls are going somewhere else or just making fewer babies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Bay Area agencies try to keep California gull numbers down, Mono Lake advocates are tirelessly working to get their numbers up by trying to limit water diversions to Los Angeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040231\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040231\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250512-SEAGULLCOUNTY-31-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Nests of California gull eggs are tucked in the grass during a survey conducted by the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory near the Dumbarton Bridge in Fremont on May 12, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maintaining a large breeding colony at Mono Lake is not only good for the birds, said Bartshe Miller of the Mono Lake Committee, but it’s also a harbinger of a healthy and diverse local ecosystem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12046670/mono-lake-could-be-losing-its-california-gulls\">But in 2024, only a few hundred chicks were born at the lake\u003c/a>, the worst California gull breeding season on record. Miller said the birds belong there, where they don’t do harm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The gulls aren’t preying on other birds here,” Miller said. “There aren’t other birds nesting at Mono Lake that gulls prey on. So this is the place for them to be.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>California gulls present wildlife managers with an interesting quandary; they’re not thriving in their historic native breeding ground, but are flourishing in a human-engineered habitat and harming other species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ecologists are still debating the best way to manage “native invasive” species like California gulls going forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the challenge of trying to conserve multiple species on a shrinking set of habitats, where human transformation of California has been so dramatic,” Van Schmidt said. “We have to figure out how to manage that and how to balance these competing needs of all these different species.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the meantime, there have been some biodiversity wins with native birds in the Bay Area. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfbbo.org/wingbeat/an-update-on-snowy-plovers\">threatened snowy plovers are slowly making a comeback\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Seagulls are everywhere we go in the Bay Area, swooping into Giants games at Oracle Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip from Giant’s game:\u003c/strong> Hey, the seagulls are here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Making it difficult for planes to take off at the San Jose Airport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>1118, just hit a bird, emergency returning to San Jose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And generally being a nuisance, ask almost anyone who has eaten anything outside, and they’ll have a seagull story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alicia Aschauer: \u003c/strong>One summer day, we were having a picnic, and my dad was grilling, and one seagull just swooped down and took an entire hamburger patty that was cooking on the grill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Annie Fruit:\u003c/strong> Classic SF State lunchtime scenario, get an awesome student union burrito. Go outside to eat it. Sit down. Seagull swoops in and takes a huge bite. Absolutely disgusting, burrito ruined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>William Wallis: \u003c/strong>One afternoon I was sitting in behind the Ferry Building enjoying my lunch. A couple of visitors to our city were walking around enjoying ice cream cones. Out of nowhere, a seagull swooped down and took one of the scoops of ice cream atop one of their cones and flew off with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And of course, there’s the poop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Charlotte Cheng: \u003c/strong>I was a first-grade teacher at Audubon Elementary in Foster City. It was right along the bay, so there were tons of seagulls. And for my little kids, they lined up after recess right alongside those handball courts. And when I went to pick up the kids, one of them was just standing in shock, covered in seagull poop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Seagulls have been making their presence known in the Bay Area over the last couple decades. And no, it’s not your imagination; there are more of them. That got one Bay Curious listener wondering, are seagulls native to the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think they’re dirty and pests, others find them majestic. Today’s episode is all about the California gull. We’ll take you on an expedition to count gulls, explore how these birds can be both native and invasive at the same time, and learn what ecologists are doing to keep their numbers in check. I’m Katrina Schwartz, and this is Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>There are many different species of gulls flying around the Bay Area. The most common are the Western and California gulls. While both have always foraged on our shores, the California gulls used to only be seasonal visitors, but recently, they’ve become year-round residents. KQED’s Pauline Bartolone tells us why that’s a problem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>So, to answer our question-asker, are California gulls native? The answer is yes, native to the state. But when you zoom into the Bay Area, that’s when the answer gets more complex. The gulls have always come to eat on our shores during the winter, but several decades ago, they started breeding here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> Right now, we are at the salt ponds in Newark, California, next to Coyote Hills Regional Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>That’s Nathan van Schmidt of the San Francisco Bay Bird Observatory. His organization has been counting bird nests here in the shallow southernmost tip of the bay for more than 40 years. Before then, these birds never bred on the levees and islands here. Then one day in 1980, they just showed up and laid eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>A breeding colony was discovered of just a few dozen of these California gulls out on historic salt pond habitats, and that looked just like their native habitat for breeding. So probably because of that, the birds started breeding there, and over the next few decades, just exploded in size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At their peak in 2013, there were more than 50,000 gulls. Nathan’s group tracks their numbers to see if they’re harming other creatures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On this wet spring morning, the gulls are in dense colonies along the pond’s edges. The birds don’t care that humans created these ponds in the bay to make commercial table salt. The gulls just like the saline water where they can feast on brine shrimp and flies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> These ponds in particular are some of our stinkiest ponds. There’s one or two spots out on this pond where there’s some bubbles that you can see methane coming up, all that good wetland stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Nathan, at least six feet tall, stands in knee-high rubber boots with clipboard in hand, he explains to a small circle of volunteers how to help count the gulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> Here we are going to be tallying the number of nests. So empty nest, one egg, two eggs, three eggs, four eggs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The count is not an easy task, especially today. It rained this morning, and volunteers struggled to find steady footing in the mud near the nest sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Volunteer: \u003c/strong>Oh god, I’m really slipped in the mud here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>Who has clickers? Somebody’s gonna need to have two clickers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Long-sleeved waterproof jackets and hard hats are a must out here. The gulls attack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>We need hard hats, because the gulls are quite defensive of their colonies, they will be dive bombing us. They will be bombing us with poop. I am pretty sure that is intentional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> As Nathan walks toward the nests and the levee flanked by his volunteers, the pace of the count picks up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Volunteers:\u003c/strong> One egg, one egg, one egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little nests are scattered all over the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> We’ll do 1e, 1d, e for that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The eggs are sea foam green with brown speckles. They’re a little bit bigger than a chicken egg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>They’re sizable. They were historically eaten in large numbers by both native people of California and folks during the Gold Rush times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>It’’s a chaotic scene, walking into a swarm of birds. You have to watch where you step. There are a lot of bird poop splats, white splats everywhere. And beware of those swooping down from above.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> That’s the attack call, if you hear it, one of them right now is going for me repeatedly, and it’s a little more ‘ehhh.’\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The gulls also attack each other, protecting their chicks from hungry fellow breeders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> They’re pretty aggressive with each other. We will see them out there chasing each other around, defending their nests from each other. The other birds in the colony are the biggest threat to their nests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Scientists are keeping tabs on the gull population because while they breed in the bay, they prey on their neighbors, other native birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt:\u003c/strong> They are pretty voracious nest predators. There are threatened species like snowy plovers that are breeding in San Francisco Bay, and there are also least terns, American avocets, black-necked stilts. They all like the islands because they’re safe from mammalian predators. But then the avian predators, like the California gulls, can be an issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The gulls have quickly become one of the threatened plovers, biggest predators, destroying as much as a third of their young in some years. The California gulls have only been breeding in San Francisco Bay for 45 years. So, where did they raise their young before?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> California gulls are definitely an iconic part of the Mono Basin. I think they’ve been nesting here for centuries and centuries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bartshe Miller lives on the eastern side of the Sierra near the border of Nevada. He’s a scientist with the Mono Lake committee, an organization trying to protect the gigantic saline lake. While scientists in the Bay Area want to keep California numbers down, Bartshe’s group is working full-time to bring their numbers back up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller: \u003c/strong>They’re beautiful birds to look at. They soar all over Mono Lake in the eastern Sierra. And every time they show up each year, it marks the passage of time and the seasons, and it tells us that they’re showing up, getting ready to breed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Gulls are migratory, so historically, these birds foraged for food on the coast during the winter and then returned to breed and raise their young on inland saline lakes in the spring and summer. At Mono Lake, gulls found a safe place to make their nests on Negit Island, nesting on the ground there. But for decades, the lake level has been dropping, and one year, a land bridge appeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller: \u003c/strong>A lot of the surrounding lake bottom was exposed. And by 1979, coyotes made it out to Negit Island and chased the gulls. I mean, they predated on their eggs and chicks, and the gulls abandoned the nests on Negit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Water levels at Mono Lake have been dropping for a long time, since at least 1941, when streams flowing to the lake were diverted to serve the city of Los Angeles. With the lake level still nine feet below what they should be, the habitat isn’t the reliable and safe breeding ground the gulls once knew.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> But I think there was this point in time where a lot of gulls probably just decided, well, it’s not safe to nest at Mono Lake.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>In 2024, only a few 100 chicks were born at Mono Lake, the worst California gull breeding season on record. But Mono Lake advocates say limiting water diversions to Los Angeles is critical to maintain an important breeding ground for the gulls and to preserve the area’s biodiversity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> There is a strong ecological link to the health of the gulls and the health of the lake’s ecosystem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bartshe says these gulls belong at Mono Lake. They don’t do harm there like they do in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bartshe Miller:\u003c/strong> There’s been this evolutionary circumstances that’s going around here where the gulls aren’t preying on other birds here. There aren’t other birds nesting at Mono Lake that gulls prey on, so this is the place for them to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>When it was no longer safe to breed at the traditional spot on Negit Island and Mono Lake, the gulls moved on to San Francisco Bay. When their number peaked a little over a decade ago, wildlife managers decided their threat to local native birds was too great. They started destroying the gulls’ nests and eggs on the levees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>We’re getting really concerned this population were just spiraling out of control and wanting to get them away from these really sensitive species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But that was a short-term fix. They needed another strategy to tamp down on the gulls, deprive them of food. There’s a huge landfill right next to the salt ponds in the South Bay, a major reason their population exploded. The Newby Island landfill stretches over hundreds of acres. Basically, it’s a giant smorgasbord for seagulls. So about a decade ago, the dump hired one man whose full-time job is chasing the birds off trash piles. Max Ottersbach is a falconer, and that’s him talking to one of his birds of prey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach:\u003c/strong> I have three falcons, and each one flies one, two hours, and I try to spread that out throughout the day, for 10 hours a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He and his menagerie of raptors and dogs scare away the seagulls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>The falcon goes up, tries to get above them as best he can, or flies towards the flock to disperse the seagulls that are in the air.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Landfill managers wouldn’t allow us to visit the dump, but we asked Max to record himself with all of his anti-gull props. The falcons are just one of his strategies. He drives around the dump on an ATV with a flag flying 16 feet in the air. Then his dogs chase after the birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach:\u003c/strong> When the birds see the ATV, and they see the flag, and they see the dogs, they know that the danger is in the area. It’s all a big show to make, to make my presence known to the seagulls that we’re here and ready to rock and roll.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Max says it can feel overwhelming out there fighting a constant tide of hundreds of birds that descend on trash heaps over and over again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>Seagulls are, are a force of nature. But the good thing is about seagulls is they don’t really act individually; they act in a flock. So if you can get one bird to go, then the chances of the other one going is going to be greater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Early on, wildlife managers tried air cannons and even pyrotechnics to scare the gulls. But Max says the primal fear of living creatures is what works best. So after a decade of being chased by his dogs and falcons, the gulls aren’t nesting or resting at the dump anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Max Ottersbach: \u003c/strong>It’s all about the long game with this project, I feel, you know, these birds are here. They’ve migrated into the bay. And so you know it’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to take multiple generations of seagulls learning that this just isn’t a place that they can come for a food source anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Nathan from the Bird Observatory says the falconer’s job may be an odd one, but it’s working. The number of breeding gulls in the South Bay is still in the 10s of 1000s, but there are fewer than the peak of over 50,000. Are the gulls going somewhere else or just making fewer babies? Scientists don’t really know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nathan says, California goals are in a weird spot. They’re not thriving at Mono Lake, their native breeding grounds, and they’re harmful to other species here in the Bay Area. There are no clear answers, he says, about the best way to manage these gulls in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Nathan Van Schmidt: \u003c/strong>It’s the challenge of trying to conserve multiple species on a shrinking set of habitats where human transformation of California has been so dramatic. They’ve all concentrated in this weird anthropogenic habitat in South Bay, and now we have to figure out how to manage that and how to balance these competing needs of all these different species.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>In the short term, there have been biodiversity wins in the Bay Area. The threatened snowy plovers, which decades ago suddenly fell prey to new gull neighbors, are slowly making a comeback.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone. Thanks to Alicia Aschauer, Annie Fruit, William Wallis and Charlotte Cheng for sharing the seagull stories you heard at the top of the episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you’ve been enjoying Bay Curious, please consider leaving us a review in your favorite podcast app or tell a friend about the show. Both are great ways for new people to find out about us, and thank you so much for doing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco, Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "How Did Fremont Come to Be Known as ‘Little Kabul’?",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a typical afternoon, shoppers pour in and out of \u003ca href=\"https://www.maiwandmarket.com/\">Maiwand Market \u003c/a>in Fremont’s Centerville District, making a beeline for the bakery, where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareabites/2584/afghan-bread-in-fremonts-little-kabul\">traditional Afghan naan is made fresh each day\u003c/a>. Customers bag their loaves up themselves at a nearby table — some stocking up on a dozen at a time. A short walk in either direction leads to additional grocery stores and restaurants serving Afghan delicacies like beef kabobs, bolani kachaloo and qabilil pallow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont is home to one of the largest concentrations of Afghans in the United States. Over the past 40-some years, this community — often celebrated for its thriving tech industry and diverse population — has even become known as Little Kabul.[baycuriouspodcastinfo] It’s a fact that has made its way into pop culture, including the 2023 indie film \u003cem>Fremont\u003c/em> and Khaled Hosseini’s bestselling novel, \u003cem>The Kite Runner\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The name Little Kabul, along with the frequent cultural references, got one Bay Curious listener wondering: How did Fremont become a cultural hub for so many Afghan Americans?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The answer goes back more than 45 years and can be broken down into four distinct waves of immigration, each based on a moment of conflict and political change in Afghanistan. But, it’s also a story of people fleeing their home country, a place they love, and looking for community and something familiar in their new home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A customer buys Afghan bread made at Maiwand Market in Fremont on Aug. 27, 2021. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Soviets invade Afghanistan, spark first major exodus\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The first wave of Afghan immigrants left home during the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1977-1980/soviet-invasion-afghanistan\">Soviet Union’s 1979 invasion of Afghanistan\u003c/a>. The USSR seized military control of Kabul and transformed the country into a war zone. Millions of Afghans were killed and millions more were forced to flee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This wave of refugees included ordinary civilians and religious minorities, as well as those who had held government jobs under previous administrations. Many Afghans fled to neighboring countries like Iran and Pakistan. Others immigrated to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We didn’t come by our choice; we were forced to leave the country,” said Hanifa Sai Tokhi, a volunteer who helps run the \u003ca href=\"https://www.afghanelderlyassociation.org/our-programs.html\">Afghan Elderly Association’s Healthy Aging Program\u003c/a> in Fremont. “I was crying for two and a half years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tokhi vividly remembers leaving Afghanistan 47 years ago. Her husband was a government employee under \u003ca href=\"https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/april-27/afghan-president-is-overthrown-and-murdered\">Afghan President Mohammad Daoud Khan\u003c/a>. After the Soviet invasion, their family received a notice that he would be arrested for his work under the country’s previous leadership.[aside postID=news_12040425 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/20250514_AFGHANREFUGEESTPS_GC-1-KQED-1020x680.jpg']With just $1,000 to their names, Tokhi, her husband and their two small children made their way to the Bay Area. By the time they joined their extended family in San Jose, Tokhi said they had just $22 left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tokhi, who had been an assistant professor of chemistry and biology back in Kabul, said that establishing herself in California was hard. She and her husband struggled to pay the mortgage and sometimes went without electricity. But eventually, they got political asylum and work permits. They were able to land jobs in the early days of Silicon Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like so many immigrant communities, Afghans like Tokhi came to Northern California because they knew someone in the area. When it was no longer safe to stay in Afghanistan, entire families relocated to where family members had come for work or school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fremont was like a magnet for Afghans to come and join this beautiful city,” said Dr. Masoud Juya, the associate director of the \u003ca href=\"https://afghancoalition.org/\">Afghan Coalition\u003c/a>. “One reason that [is] a big attractive factor for Afghans is definitely this landscape, the beauty, the geography, and the weather.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The East Bay hills reminded many Afghans of the mountainous terrain of their homeland. Entrepreneurial immigrants opened mosques, rug stores, and halal butcher shops. Specialty grocery stores like Maiwand Market soon opened their doors, offering fresh bread and other imported goods to local Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Fremont supported these endeavors by offering grants to Afghan business owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont was more affordable than bigger cities like San Francisco or Oakland, and California also had generous welfare benefits that helped people get resettled here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Slowly it started to get built until this city was called ‘Little Kabul,’ which is a very attractive name,” said Juya.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A civil war prompts more people to leave Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The second wave of immigration took place in the 1990s during the Afghan Civil War, following the collapse of the Soviet-backed Afghan government. The war took place between different ethnic groups and eventually resulted in the Taliban’s rise to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though Juya was in elementary school at the time, he still remembers how tumultuous and disruptive the civil war was. Tens of thousands of Afghans — mostly civilians — were killed throughout the conflict.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050014\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050014\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Participants wave colorful scarves during an exercise segment at the Afghan Elderly Association’s weekly wellness gathering in Fremont on July 23, 2025. The event is part of the nonprofit’s Healthy Aging Program, supporting Afghan elders through social connection, movement, meals, and health education. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A lot of homes were destroyed due to the civil war, and our home was no exception,” Juya recalled, adding that he had been buried under the rubble. His family was displaced to a new city, though many Afghans left Afghanistan altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Again, many migrated to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When they ended up here, then the first question they asked was like, ‘OK, which state has more Afghans? Let’s go and join our communities there,’” Juya said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the second wave of immigrants arrived in Northern California, the first wave was ready to help them get settled. The Afghan Coalition, was established in Fremont during this time. Since 1996, the mission of this international organization has been to offer social services to Afghan refugees, including assistance with housing, professional resources and mental health support.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Afghan Elderly Association was founded a year earlier to provide Afghans with culturally appropriate health programs. The organization’s founders went door-to-door, individually recruiting each elder.[aside postID=news_11883382 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/08/Josie-Manalo-leaving-for-America-1920x1080-1.jpg']“We were going with these ladies to advocate to the doctors and translate,” said Tokhi, who worked with the group as a health promoter. “We were going to their homes. We were doing medication management. Sometimes they cannot read English, and we would ask, ‘What is this medicine for?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the organization knew that healthy living wasn’t just about medication and doctor’s visits. There needed to be a social element, \u003ca href=\"https://www.afghanelderlyassociation.org/our-programs.html\">which they eventually offered through its Healthy Aging Program\u003c/a>. Each week, the program offers a hot meal, exercise classes and medical check-ups from Afghan nurses who speak Farsi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They brought these ladies out of isolation,” Tokhi said. She now helps run the program as a volunteer. “There is some gossip, too,” Tokhi said with a laugh. “I have to have gossip.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Programs like this created more opportunities for immigrants to feel comfortable and connected when they got to Fremont. And the city supported them. For years, Fremont’s Human Services Department collaborated with the Afghan Elderly Association by providing staffing support, along with office and meeting spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>9/11 upends the social order in Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The third wave of immigration to Fremont occurred after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001. The United States sent troops into Afghanistan to oust the Taliban leaders, sparking an overseas conflict that continued for 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The toppling of the Taliban regime ushered in a new Afghan government and constitution. With the end of the Taliban’s religious extremism also came opportunities for women to work and girls to get an education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050017\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050017\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Volunteer Hanifa Tokhi speaks to the group at the Afghan Elderly Association’s weekly wellness gathering in Fremont on July 23, 2025. The event is part of the nonprofit’s Healthy Aging Program, supporting Afghan elders through social connection, movement, meals, and health education. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This was the beginning of a big change for Afghanistan,” said Juya. “It was the first time after all those dark periods that Afghanistan was connected to the rest of the world.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rather than needing to flee as refugees as in the earlier immigration waves, Afghans could finally come to the U.S. on cultural exchange programs or to study.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They freely moved out of Afghanistan because of the opportunities that were available,” Juya said.[aside postID=news_12048251 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-11-BL_qed.jpg']Juya himself first came to the United States during the third wave, in 2009. He’d just graduated medical school and was pursuing a Fulbright scholarship. He later traveled back and forth to Afghanistan, where he opened a successful university and a health science institute inspired by his time in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We put into practice pretty much every bit of information we learned here,” said Dr. Juya. “We were really revolutionists in terms of helping Afghanistan develop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While he’s grateful for all he learned studying in the U.S., the experience wasn’t all positive. He, like other Afghan immigrants, faced discrimination as a Muslim.*\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There is an added layer of difficulty because of stigma, discrimination,” he said. “This in itself is also another factor that might motivate community members to come together so that they prevent themselves from additional threats or risks.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even Fremont experienced that stigma. In 2001, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/a-worrisome-wake-fear-of-backlash-lurks-in-a-2878560.php\">local news outlets\u003c/a> reported on hate crimes directed at Afghans, including death threats and a smashed store window around Little Kabul. A few days later, the owner of the vandalized store put an American flag in those same windows to show his loyalty to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Years later, Afghan Americans asked the City Council to formally recognize the area known as Little Kabul. However, \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2004/09/27/fremont-wont-have-a-little-kabul/\">the initiative stalled after local businesses banded together to oppose the idea\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>US troops withdraw from Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The fourth and largest wave of immigration started in 2021 with President Biden’s decision to withdraw U.S. troops from Afghanistan. Almost immediately, the Taliban returned to power and anyone who had participated in opening Afghanistan up, making it more liberal and democratic, was in danger. People like Juya.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was fighting hard as a member of my community against extremism,” Juya said. “I was really at high risk, and I had to leave as soon as I could.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050012\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050012\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Associate Director Masoud Juya sits in a conference room at the offices of the Afghan Coalition in Fremont on July 21, 2025. The organization provides health, education, and social services to support Afghan and other immigrant communities in the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Juya eventually left Afghanistan through an American Ph.D. program, after which he settled in Concord in search of a stable life.**\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He is one of \u003ca href=\"https://www.fremont.gov/home/showpublisheddocument/12395/638119693632730000\">roughly 10,000 Afghans\u003c/a> who ended up in California after the 2021 withdrawal. The refugees during this fourth wave came from all parts of Afghan society, including academics, musicians, journalists, human rights advocates, and those who had worked with the U.S. military and allied forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So many people wanted to get out of Afghanistan during the hectic withdrawal that \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiRJRjsLx-M&ab_channel=GuardianNews\">some people sprinted after U.S. military planes trying to get onboard\u003c/a> and others held onto the wings as the planes took off.[aside postID=news_11887630 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/09/RS51406_021_Fremont_MaiwandMarket_08272021-qut-1020x680.jpg']As these horrific scenes unfolded, the City of Fremont again stepped up to support its local Afghan community. The Human Services Department raised $485,000 for an \u003ca href=\"https://www.fremont.gov/home/showpublisheddocument/12395/638119693632730000\">Afghan Refugee Help Fund\u003c/a>, which paid for necessities like filing immigration documents, temporary housing, new cell phones, mental health resources, and driving lessons for recent arrivals. The effort was coordinated in collaboration with Afghan organizations and businesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As ever, the Afghans who had already established themselves in the Bay Area mobilized to help newcomers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after Juya arrived in Fremont, his fellow Afghans hired him to help run the Afghan Coalition. But, he said, the volume of new Afghan arrivals has made a competitive job market even tougher. And many people don’t have the skills to fit into Silicon Valley’s high-tech, AI-driven economy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were professionals back home,” he said. “They come here but they cannot find a professional job, so I see a lot of frustration for some of the young, talented Afghans.” Many are hustling as DoorDash or Uber drivers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Promoting ‘positive energy’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The music composer and producer Hasib Sepand was lucky enough to arrive in Fremont before the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan. He opened a music school, called \u003ca href=\"https://www.sepandstudios.com/service/sepand-music-academy/\">The Sepand Music Academy\u003c/a>. Just six months later, the Taliban came back to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nobody was interested in music, even myself,” he said. “We were like mentally very depressed. I didn’t have that courage to play music because my family’s over there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050026\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050026\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hasib Sepand plays the harmonium at Sepand Studios in Fremont on July 21, 2025, where his music academy offers instruction in sitar, tabla, harmonium, and other instruments, and he composes and produces music. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sepand came from a family of well-known musicians in Afghanistan, who were forced to relocate to Pakistan after the Taliban’s first rise to power. During the U.S. war with Afghanistan, Sepand’s family had also worked with the American Army. They were able to qualify for Special Immigrant Visas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The last American plane that flew from Afghanistan included my family,” Sepand said. “It’s like a film.”[aside postID=news_12045917 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/ATK6-KQED.jpg']After he helped resettle his family in the Bay Area, Sepand reached out to the City of Fremont. They collaborated to offer three months of free music classes to new arrivals as a part of the Afghan Refugee Help Fund. Sepand taught students to sing traditional Afghan music and play instruments like the tabla and sitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My class is not only a music class,” he said. “I tried to give a positive energy, especially for the newcomers, because they face a lot of problems. They face stress, depression, different culture, different language, sometimes no job.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sepand said that students would often tell him his music class was the highlight of their week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before he came to Fremont and learned the firsthand challenges of starting over in America, Sepand thought it would be a more glamorous place. But Fremont was not the America Hasib had pictured. Over time, as he has watched the community come together to support one another, he has come to love this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now, to me, it looks a hundred times better than every place in America because I live here and I have friends and I enjoy everything in Fremont,” Sepand said. “I love Fremont.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*An earlier version of this story stated that Juya experienced discrimination for being Muslim and Arab. But Afghans are not Arab. We regret the error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>**A previous version of this story stated that Juya settled in Fremont. In fact, he lives in Concord.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Fremont is the fourth-largest town in the Bay Area, but it doesn’t always get the love it deserves. It’s a quiet place, but has a thriving tech industry, an incredibly diverse population and played an important role in the early silent film industry. It’s also home to one of the largest Afghan populations in the country…a fact that often shows up in pop culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip from \u003cem>Fremont\u003c/em>: \u003c/strong>Do you live in Fremont? Are you also from Afghanistan? Yes, I am. On the Special Immigration Visa? Yes. I was a translator in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That’s a clip from the 2023 indie film “Fremont” about a military translator starting over in Fremont after being forced to leave Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a premise rooted in reality. Over the past 40-some years, Fremont’s Afghans have slowly built a cultural hub here. There’s even a business district known as Little Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That name, Little Kabul, sparked the interest of one Bay Curious listener who wanted to know more about how Fremont became home to so many Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on Bay Curious, we’re tracing four distinct waves of Afghan immigration to the U.S. and illuminating how 40 years of U.S. foreign policy have led us to this point. We’ll meet Afghan refugees who’ve settled here, learn what makes this community unique and dig into some of the challenges they face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Katrina Schwartz, filling in for Olivia Allen-Price. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Northern California is home to the largest concentration of Afghans in the United States. And many have settled in the Bay Area city of Fremont. Reporter Asal Ehsanipour went to find out why so many folks have decided to make this East Bay town home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour:\u003c/strong> Recently, I went to an Eid dinner to celebrate the end of Ramadan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>We have, of course, the delicious kabuli pulao, which is a very common Afghan dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Tables piled with plates of homemade rice and pastries made by local Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> This is called simion. It’s a very popular dried fruit, usually during Eid, it is used in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Guiding me on this food tour is Dr. Masoud Juya, the associate director of a local nonprofit called the Afghan Coalition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>We have come here today to celebrate Eid and also to enjoy the Afghan culture, food, music. And to kind of enhance our collegiality, you know, over the joy and feast of Eid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Roughly 66,000 people of Afghan descent live in California, according to the 2019 Census. And historically, the highest concentration has been right here in Fremont. Making it one of the largest Afghan communities in the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>Fremont was like a magnet for Afghans to come and join this beautiful city. And one reason that it’s a big attractive factor for Afghans is definitely this landscape, the beauty, the geography, and the weather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>It doesn’t hurt that the East Bay has these majestic hills, which remind Afghans of home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When you see these hills, it’s really reminiscent of those beautiful memories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Fremont’s Afghan community has been growing for decades. Masoud says you can break it down into four – distinct waves, each based on a moment of conflict and political change in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first wave of immigration began in the late 1970s when the USSR invaded Afghanistan and took control of Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News Clip: \u003c/strong>In 1979, the Soviet Union determined that Afghanistan would be a communist nation … forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The Soviet invasion and the U.S. decision to arm rebel groups within Afghanistan as part of a proxy Cold War kicked off decades of instability for Afghanistan. Millions were killed. And millions more fled as refugees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News Clip: \u003c/strong>In that decade of war, over 1,000 villages and towns have been destroyed by tanks and bombs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> The immigrants from that era were those who were persecuted by the communist regime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>They included religious minorities and people who’d held government jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> As well as civilians, ordinary civilians who did not feel safe to stay in the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Many Afghans fled to neighboring countries, like Iran and Pakistan. Others came to America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Some of them ended up in Virginia first, and then they knew somebody who had recently come to this part of the country, and they were satisfied. So then they talked together and they decided to join each other here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Like so many immigrant communities, Afghans came to California because that’s where they knew people. If entire families were to uproot their lives and move across the world, they needed to stick together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a weekly health event put on by the Afghan Elderly Association, women I met said they’d followed family members who’d come to Fremont for work or school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 1: \u003c/strong>My daughter, she went to San José State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 2: \u003c/strong>Aunts and uncle.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 3: \u003c/strong>My friend, my relative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 2: \u003c/strong>Everybody was here in Fremont, so I came to join them, join the group.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi came to the Bay Area 47 years ago. But she still feels the pain of leaving Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> I was crying for two and a half years. We didn’t come by our choice. We were forced to leave the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa’s husband had worked for the Afghan government before the Soviet invasion. One day, they heard a knock at the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> They sent the notices that they’re going to arrest him and put him in jail. And even they told him to be ready when the soldiers come, go with them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>With just $1,000 to their names, Hanifa, her husband, and their two small children made their way to the Bay Area. Hanifa had a brother-in-law in San Jose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> By the time we came, we had $22 because most of the money was spent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa says life was hard. They struggled to pay the mortgage, sometimes went without electricity. Eventually, she and her husband got political asylum and work permits, applied for jobs in the early days of Silicon Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> But then, there is not a lot of people coming to San Jose, but mostly was coming to Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Almost immediately, Fremont became the center of Afghan life. Grocery stores like Maiwand Market sold tastes of home. And immigrants opened mosques, rug stores, and Halal butcher shops. And the City of Fremont supported them. It offered grants to help Afghan business owners get started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Slowly, it started to get built. Until this city was called Little Kabul, which is a very attractive name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud Juya says Fremont was more affordable than bigger cities like San Francisco or Oakland. Plus, California had generous welfare benefits that helped people get resettled here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Afghans trickled into Fremont throughout the 1980s until the next big wave of immigration a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The second wave actually was in the 1990s, when Afghanistan was experiencing a civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip:\u003c/strong> The Shiite Southwest District of Kabul begin the latest battlefield in the fight to control Afghanistan’s capital.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The civil war was between different ethnic groups in Afghanistan and resulted in the Taliban’s rise to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Masoud remembers how tumultuous and disruptive that time was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>I was actually in the primary school, and the war was terrible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>Rebels reportedly fired hundreds of rockets in the residential area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>A lot of homes were destroyed due to the civil war, and our home was no exception. So every Afghan was doing their best to get out of the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Again, many Afghans came to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When they ended up here, then the first question they asked was like, OK, which state has more Afghans? Let’s go and join our communities there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>When the \u003cem>second\u003c/em> wave of immigrants got to Fremont, the \u003cem>first\u003c/em> wave was ready to help them get settled. That’s how Masoud’s organization, the Afghan Coalition, was founded in 1996. Since then, they’ve offered social services to Afghan refugees, helping them find housing, jobs, and mental health support.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And it was around the time the Afghan Elderly Association started its work. The founders went door to door individually recruiting each member.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>I was working with this association for 16 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Here’s Hanifa Sai Tokhi again. After leaving Afghanistan during the Soviet Invasion, she eventually became a \u003cem>health promoter\u003c/em> for the Afghan Elderly Association. Her job was to bring culturally appropriate health services to older community members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>We were going with these ladies to advocate to the doctors and translate. Like sometimes they cannot read English, and we would ask what is this medicine for?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>But the organization knew that healthy living wasn’t just about medication and doctor’s visits. There needed to be a social element. So, they created the Healthy Aging Program. And, it still exists!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>They brought these ladies out of isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Here, each week, they offer a hot meal, exercise classes and medical check-ups from Afghan nurses who speak Farsi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>And also, there is some gossip, too. I have to have gossip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Programs like this created more opportunities for immigrants to feel comfortable and connected when they got to Fremont. And for years, the city of Fremont’s Human Services Department collaborated with the Afghan Elderly Association. They provided staffing support, along with office and meeting spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And so with that second wave, the Afghan community was growing. Thriving in a Fremont bubble, until the 9/11 attacks put the international spotlight back on Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>We have a very tragic alert for you right now. An incredible plane crash into the World Trade Center here at the lower tip of Manhattan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>George W. Bush: \u003c/strong>On my orders, the United States military has begun strikes against al-Qaeda terrorist training camps and military installations of the Taliban regime and Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The Taliban government was toppled post-9/11, and a new administration was built in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>With the new government came a new constitution. It meant an end to the Taliban’s religious extremism, opportunities for women to work, and girls to get an education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>So this was the beginning of a big change for Afghanistan. It was the first time after all those dark periods that Afghanistan was connected to the rest of the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Rather than needing to flee as refugees, people could finally come to the U.S. on cultural exchange programs or to study. But when they got here, they were faced with a very Islamophobic America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When there is maybe an added layer of difficulty because of stigma, discrimination, or whatsoever, this in itself is also another factor that might motivate community members to come together so that they prevent themselves from additional threats or risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud first came to the U.S. during this third wave after the fall of the Taliban. He wanted to learn as much as he could and bring that knowledge back to Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> We put into practice pretty much every bit of information we learned here. And we were really, in our own sense, we were really revolutionists in terms of helping Afghanistan develop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Inspired by his time in the States, he opened a successful university and a health science institute.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>And that’s why people like me were always staying there until we really had to leave post-2021.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>2021, when the United States \u003cem>withdrew\u003c/em> from Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Joe Biden:\u003c/strong> I concluded it’s time to end America’s longest war. It’s time for American troops to come home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The Taliban took back control of the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>The Taliban advance appears unstoppable. Ruthless as ever, to those who stand in their way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This U.S. policy decision caused the fourth and most recent wave of immigration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>Now the Taliban is back, anyone who worked for the Afghan government has fled or is in hiding. Women and girls live in fear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud was also afraid. He had been at the forefront of trying to rebuild a more liberal, democratic Afghanistan. But now, all of that was smoke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> I was fighting hard as a member of my community against extremism. So I was really at high risk, and I had to leave as soon as I could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud explored every avenue and eventually got out through an American Ph.D. program.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> But after I completed my Ph.D., then I was thinking of staying somewhere for a stable life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The obvious choice: Fremont. Masoud is one of roughly 10,000 Afghans who ended up in California after the 2021 withdrawal. And this time, the refugees came from all parts of Afghan society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The fourth wave is actually a very, very different group of people: vocalists, musicians, academics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Journalists and human rights advocates, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> More importantly, people who really worked with the Afghan government and the U.S. Government.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Including members of the U.S. military and allied forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> But then there were also some civilians who just went to the airport because they are also afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>You might remember news footage of desperate Afghans sprinting after U.S. military planes trying to get onboard. Some even held onto the wings as the planes took off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> People who were really scared of their lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>As these horrific scenes unfolded, the city of Fremont again stepped up to support the Afghan community. It raised $485,000 for an Afghan Refugee Help Fund … to help pay for things like filing immigration documents, temporary housing, mental health resources, and driving lessons for recent arrivals. This was done in collaboration with Afghan organizations and businesses. As ever, those who had already established themselves mobilized to help newcomers. And new immigrants leveraged what earlier waves had built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Yeah, all these resources that Afghans created, institutions that they built, connections that they had, the knowledge that they have from navigating the U.S. System, I think they were all transferred into the new waves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>When Masoud got to Fremont, his expertise building institutions in Afghanistan made him the perfect guy for a job at the Afghan Coalition, helping other refugees get settled. But he was one of the lucky few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Afghans come here, and I see they were professionals back home. They come here, but they cannot find a professional job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This fourth wave is bigger than the prior ones. And people don’t have the skills to fit into the Bay Area’s high-tech, AI-driven economy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> So I see a lot of frustration for some of the young, talented Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>One of those young, talented Afghans is Hasib Sepand. He arrived in Fremont before the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan and started a music school, called The Sepand Academy … Just six months later, the Taliban came back to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Nobody was interested in music, even myself. So, we were like mentally very depressed. I didn’t have that courage to play music. Because my family’s over there.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Like Hasib, his family were musicians. And Hasib’s siblings had also worked with the American Army. Because of that, they were able to qualify for Special Immigrant Visas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> And the last American plane that flew from Afghanistan included my family. It’s like a film.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hasib was so grateful his family made it to safety, he wanted to help other newcomers. With the city’s help, Hasib offered three months of free music classes to new arrivals. They sang and played instruments like the tabla and sitar. You’re hearing them play now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of music class playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> I tried to give a positive energy, especially for the newcomers, because they face a lot of problems. They face stress, depression, different culture, different language, sometimes no job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hasib says before he came to Fremont — before he knew anything about how hard it would be to live in the U.S. — he thought it would be a more glamorous place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand: \u003c/strong>My Afghan friends, they used to tell me, “OK, so you are going to Fremont. Oh my god. That’s a dream city.” And they gave me kind of like wrong imagination.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This was not the “America” Hasib had pictured. But as he’s watched the community come together to support one another, he’s come to love this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Now, to me, it looks a hundred times better than every place in America because I live here and I have friends and I enjoy everything in Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>He says he loves the people, the fellowship created at local Afghan bakeries and banquet halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Right now, I feel that I’m in Afghanistan. I’m in my hometown. Most of the time, I don’t speak English because everywhere I go is like Afghans. And when my friends come from Canada or from Europe, they are jealous. I love Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Or as Hasib calls it: Little Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> That was reporter Asal Ehsanipour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont’s Afghan community is under threat once again. President Trump recently announced plans to end temporary protected status for a host of countries, including Afghanistan. The administration also put a halt to most refugee resettlements programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other big difficulty facing this community is cost of living in the Bay Area. More Afghans are choosing to settle in Sacramento than Fremont now because it’s more affordable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As you may have heard, this is a perilous time for public media and KQED. So, if you have a moment, head on over to kqed dot org slash donate. Every little bit helps to support the shows you love, and we appreciate you so much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "The East Bay town of Fremont is known for its diversity and growing tech sector, but also as a hub of Afghan life and culture. We explore the forces that created Little Kabul.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a typical afternoon, shoppers pour in and out of \u003ca href=\"https://www.maiwandmarket.com/\">Maiwand Market \u003c/a>in Fremont’s Centerville District, making a beeline for the bakery, where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareabites/2584/afghan-bread-in-fremonts-little-kabul\">traditional Afghan naan is made fresh each day\u003c/a>. Customers bag their loaves up themselves at a nearby table — some stocking up on a dozen at a time. A short walk in either direction leads to additional grocery stores and restaurants serving Afghan delicacies like beef kabobs, bolani kachaloo and qabilil pallow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont is home to one of the largest concentrations of Afghans in the United States. Over the past 40-some years, this community — often celebrated for its thriving tech industry and diverse population — has even become known as Little Kabul.\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp> It’s a fact that has made its way into pop culture, including the 2023 indie film \u003cem>Fremont\u003c/em> and Khaled Hosseini’s bestselling novel, \u003cem>The Kite Runner\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The name Little Kabul, along with the frequent cultural references, got one Bay Curious listener wondering: How did Fremont become a cultural hub for so many Afghan Americans?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The answer goes back more than 45 years and can be broken down into four distinct waves of immigration, each based on a moment of conflict and political change in Afghanistan. But, it’s also a story of people fleeing their home country, a place they love, and looking for community and something familiar in their new home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/006_FREMONT_MAIWANDMARKET_08272021-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A customer buys Afghan bread made at Maiwand Market in Fremont on Aug. 27, 2021. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Soviets invade Afghanistan, spark first major exodus\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The first wave of Afghan immigrants left home during the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1977-1980/soviet-invasion-afghanistan\">Soviet Union’s 1979 invasion of Afghanistan\u003c/a>. The USSR seized military control of Kabul and transformed the country into a war zone. Millions of Afghans were killed and millions more were forced to flee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This wave of refugees included ordinary civilians and religious minorities, as well as those who had held government jobs under previous administrations. Many Afghans fled to neighboring countries like Iran and Pakistan. Others immigrated to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We didn’t come by our choice; we were forced to leave the country,” said Hanifa Sai Tokhi, a volunteer who helps run the \u003ca href=\"https://www.afghanelderlyassociation.org/our-programs.html\">Afghan Elderly Association’s Healthy Aging Program\u003c/a> in Fremont. “I was crying for two and a half years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tokhi vividly remembers leaving Afghanistan 47 years ago. Her husband was a government employee under \u003ca href=\"https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/april-27/afghan-president-is-overthrown-and-murdered\">Afghan President Mohammad Daoud Khan\u003c/a>. After the Soviet invasion, their family received a notice that he would be arrested for his work under the country’s previous leadership.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>With just $1,000 to their names, Tokhi, her husband and their two small children made their way to the Bay Area. By the time they joined their extended family in San Jose, Tokhi said they had just $22 left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tokhi, who had been an assistant professor of chemistry and biology back in Kabul, said that establishing herself in California was hard. She and her husband struggled to pay the mortgage and sometimes went without electricity. But eventually, they got political asylum and work permits. They were able to land jobs in the early days of Silicon Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like so many immigrant communities, Afghans like Tokhi came to Northern California because they knew someone in the area. When it was no longer safe to stay in Afghanistan, entire families relocated to where family members had come for work or school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fremont was like a magnet for Afghans to come and join this beautiful city,” said Dr. Masoud Juya, the associate director of the \u003ca href=\"https://afghancoalition.org/\">Afghan Coalition\u003c/a>. “One reason that [is] a big attractive factor for Afghans is definitely this landscape, the beauty, the geography, and the weather.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The East Bay hills reminded many Afghans of the mountainous terrain of their homeland. Entrepreneurial immigrants opened mosques, rug stores, and halal butcher shops. Specialty grocery stores like Maiwand Market soon opened their doors, offering fresh bread and other imported goods to local Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Fremont supported these endeavors by offering grants to Afghan business owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont was more affordable than bigger cities like San Francisco or Oakland, and California also had generous welfare benefits that helped people get resettled here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Slowly it started to get built until this city was called ‘Little Kabul,’ which is a very attractive name,” said Juya.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A civil war prompts more people to leave Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The second wave of immigration took place in the 1990s during the Afghan Civil War, following the collapse of the Soviet-backed Afghan government. The war took place between different ethnic groups and eventually resulted in the Taliban’s rise to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though Juya was in elementary school at the time, he still remembers how tumultuous and disruptive the civil war was. Tens of thousands of Afghans — mostly civilians — were killed throughout the conflict.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050014\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050014\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-04-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Participants wave colorful scarves during an exercise segment at the Afghan Elderly Association’s weekly wellness gathering in Fremont on July 23, 2025. The event is part of the nonprofit’s Healthy Aging Program, supporting Afghan elders through social connection, movement, meals, and health education. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A lot of homes were destroyed due to the civil war, and our home was no exception,” Juya recalled, adding that he had been buried under the rubble. His family was displaced to a new city, though many Afghans left Afghanistan altogether.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Again, many migrated to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When they ended up here, then the first question they asked was like, ‘OK, which state has more Afghans? Let’s go and join our communities there,’” Juya said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the second wave of immigrants arrived in Northern California, the first wave was ready to help them get settled. The Afghan Coalition, was established in Fremont during this time. Since 1996, the mission of this international organization has been to offer social services to Afghan refugees, including assistance with housing, professional resources and mental health support.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Afghan Elderly Association was founded a year earlier to provide Afghans with culturally appropriate health programs. The organization’s founders went door-to-door, individually recruiting each elder.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“We were going with these ladies to advocate to the doctors and translate,” said Tokhi, who worked with the group as a health promoter. “We were going to their homes. We were doing medication management. Sometimes they cannot read English, and we would ask, ‘What is this medicine for?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the organization knew that healthy living wasn’t just about medication and doctor’s visits. There needed to be a social element, \u003ca href=\"https://www.afghanelderlyassociation.org/our-programs.html\">which they eventually offered through its Healthy Aging Program\u003c/a>. Each week, the program offers a hot meal, exercise classes and medical check-ups from Afghan nurses who speak Farsi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They brought these ladies out of isolation,” Tokhi said. She now helps run the program as a volunteer. “There is some gossip, too,” Tokhi said with a laugh. “I have to have gossip.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Programs like this created more opportunities for immigrants to feel comfortable and connected when they got to Fremont. And the city supported them. For years, Fremont’s Human Services Department collaborated with the Afghan Elderly Association by providing staffing support, along with office and meeting spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>9/11 upends the social order in Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The third wave of immigration to Fremont occurred after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001. The United States sent troops into Afghanistan to oust the Taliban leaders, sparking an overseas conflict that continued for 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The toppling of the Taliban regime ushered in a new Afghan government and constitution. With the end of the Taliban’s religious extremism also came opportunities for women to work and girls to get an education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050017\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050017\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250723-AFGHANSINFREMONT-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Volunteer Hanifa Tokhi speaks to the group at the Afghan Elderly Association’s weekly wellness gathering in Fremont on July 23, 2025. The event is part of the nonprofit’s Healthy Aging Program, supporting Afghan elders through social connection, movement, meals, and health education. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This was the beginning of a big change for Afghanistan,” said Juya. “It was the first time after all those dark periods that Afghanistan was connected to the rest of the world.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rather than needing to flee as refugees as in the earlier immigration waves, Afghans could finally come to the U.S. on cultural exchange programs or to study.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They freely moved out of Afghanistan because of the opportunities that were available,” Juya said.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Juya himself first came to the United States during the third wave, in 2009. He’d just graduated medical school and was pursuing a Fulbright scholarship. He later traveled back and forth to Afghanistan, where he opened a successful university and a health science institute inspired by his time in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We put into practice pretty much every bit of information we learned here,” said Dr. Juya. “We were really revolutionists in terms of helping Afghanistan develop.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While he’s grateful for all he learned studying in the U.S., the experience wasn’t all positive. He, like other Afghan immigrants, faced discrimination as a Muslim.*\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There is an added layer of difficulty because of stigma, discrimination,” he said. “This in itself is also another factor that might motivate community members to come together so that they prevent themselves from additional threats or risks.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even Fremont experienced that stigma. In 2001, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/a-worrisome-wake-fear-of-backlash-lurks-in-a-2878560.php\">local news outlets\u003c/a> reported on hate crimes directed at Afghans, including death threats and a smashed store window around Little Kabul. A few days later, the owner of the vandalized store put an American flag in those same windows to show his loyalty to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Years later, Afghan Americans asked the City Council to formally recognize the area known as Little Kabul. However, \u003ca href=\"https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2004/09/27/fremont-wont-have-a-little-kabul/\">the initiative stalled after local businesses banded together to oppose the idea\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>US troops withdraw from Afghanistan\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The fourth and largest wave of immigration started in 2021 with President Biden’s decision to withdraw U.S. troops from Afghanistan. Almost immediately, the Taliban returned to power and anyone who had participated in opening Afghanistan up, making it more liberal and democratic, was in danger. People like Juya.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was fighting hard as a member of my community against extremism,” Juya said. “I was really at high risk, and I had to leave as soon as I could.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050012\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050012\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AFGHANSINFREMONT-14-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Associate Director Masoud Juya sits in a conference room at the offices of the Afghan Coalition in Fremont on July 21, 2025. The organization provides health, education, and social services to support Afghan and other immigrant communities in the Bay Area. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Juya eventually left Afghanistan through an American Ph.D. program, after which he settled in Concord in search of a stable life.**\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He is one of \u003ca href=\"https://www.fremont.gov/home/showpublisheddocument/12395/638119693632730000\">roughly 10,000 Afghans\u003c/a> who ended up in California after the 2021 withdrawal. The refugees during this fourth wave came from all parts of Afghan society, including academics, musicians, journalists, human rights advocates, and those who had worked with the U.S. military and allied forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So many people wanted to get out of Afghanistan during the hectic withdrawal that \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiRJRjsLx-M&ab_channel=GuardianNews\">some people sprinted after U.S. military planes trying to get onboard\u003c/a> and others held onto the wings as the planes took off.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>As these horrific scenes unfolded, the City of Fremont again stepped up to support its local Afghan community. The Human Services Department raised $485,000 for an \u003ca href=\"https://www.fremont.gov/home/showpublisheddocument/12395/638119693632730000\">Afghan Refugee Help Fund\u003c/a>, which paid for necessities like filing immigration documents, temporary housing, new cell phones, mental health resources, and driving lessons for recent arrivals. The effort was coordinated in collaboration with Afghan organizations and businesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As ever, the Afghans who had already established themselves in the Bay Area mobilized to help newcomers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after Juya arrived in Fremont, his fellow Afghans hired him to help run the Afghan Coalition. But, he said, the volume of new Afghan arrivals has made a competitive job market even tougher. And many people don’t have the skills to fit into Silicon Valley’s high-tech, AI-driven economy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were professionals back home,” he said. “They come here but they cannot find a professional job, so I see a lot of frustration for some of the young, talented Afghans.” Many are hustling as DoorDash or Uber drivers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Promoting ‘positive energy’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The music composer and producer Hasib Sepand was lucky enough to arrive in Fremont before the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan. He opened a music school, called \u003ca href=\"https://www.sepandstudios.com/service/sepand-music-academy/\">The Sepand Music Academy\u003c/a>. Just six months later, the Taliban came back to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Nobody was interested in music, even myself,” he said. “We were like mentally very depressed. I didn’t have that courage to play music because my family’s over there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12050026\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12050026\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250721-AfghansinFremont-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hasib Sepand plays the harmonium at Sepand Studios in Fremont on July 21, 2025, where his music academy offers instruction in sitar, tabla, harmonium, and other instruments, and he composes and produces music. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Sepand came from a family of well-known musicians in Afghanistan, who were forced to relocate to Pakistan after the Taliban’s first rise to power. During the U.S. war with Afghanistan, Sepand’s family had also worked with the American Army. They were able to qualify for Special Immigrant Visas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The last American plane that flew from Afghanistan included my family,” Sepand said. “It’s like a film.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>After he helped resettle his family in the Bay Area, Sepand reached out to the City of Fremont. They collaborated to offer three months of free music classes to new arrivals as a part of the Afghan Refugee Help Fund. Sepand taught students to sing traditional Afghan music and play instruments like the tabla and sitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My class is not only a music class,” he said. “I tried to give a positive energy, especially for the newcomers, because they face a lot of problems. They face stress, depression, different culture, different language, sometimes no job.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sepand said that students would often tell him his music class was the highlight of their week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before he came to Fremont and learned the firsthand challenges of starting over in America, Sepand thought it would be a more glamorous place. But Fremont was not the America Hasib had pictured. Over time, as he has watched the community come together to support one another, he has come to love this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Now, to me, it looks a hundred times better than every place in America because I live here and I have friends and I enjoy everything in Fremont,” Sepand said. “I love Fremont.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*An earlier version of this story stated that Juya experienced discrimination for being Muslim and Arab. But Afghans are not Arab. We regret the error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>**A previous version of this story stated that Juya settled in Fremont. In fact, he lives in Concord.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Fremont is the fourth-largest town in the Bay Area, but it doesn’t always get the love it deserves. It’s a quiet place, but has a thriving tech industry, an incredibly diverse population and played an important role in the early silent film industry. It’s also home to one of the largest Afghan populations in the country…a fact that often shows up in pop culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip from \u003cem>Fremont\u003c/em>: \u003c/strong>Do you live in Fremont? Are you also from Afghanistan? Yes, I am. On the Special Immigration Visa? Yes. I was a translator in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That’s a clip from the 2023 indie film “Fremont” about a military translator starting over in Fremont after being forced to leave Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a premise rooted in reality. Over the past 40-some years, Fremont’s Afghans have slowly built a cultural hub here. There’s even a business district known as Little Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That name, Little Kabul, sparked the interest of one Bay Curious listener who wanted to know more about how Fremont became home to so many Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on Bay Curious, we’re tracing four distinct waves of Afghan immigration to the U.S. and illuminating how 40 years of U.S. foreign policy have led us to this point. We’ll meet Afghan refugees who’ve settled here, learn what makes this community unique and dig into some of the challenges they face.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Katrina Schwartz, filling in for Olivia Allen-Price. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Northern California is home to the largest concentration of Afghans in the United States. And many have settled in the Bay Area city of Fremont. Reporter Asal Ehsanipour went to find out why so many folks have decided to make this East Bay town home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour:\u003c/strong> Recently, I went to an Eid dinner to celebrate the end of Ramadan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>We have, of course, the delicious kabuli pulao, which is a very common Afghan dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Tables piled with plates of homemade rice and pastries made by local Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> This is called simion. It’s a very popular dried fruit, usually during Eid, it is used in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Guiding me on this food tour is Dr. Masoud Juya, the associate director of a local nonprofit called the Afghan Coalition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>We have come here today to celebrate Eid and also to enjoy the Afghan culture, food, music. And to kind of enhance our collegiality, you know, over the joy and feast of Eid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Roughly 66,000 people of Afghan descent live in California, according to the 2019 Census. And historically, the highest concentration has been right here in Fremont. Making it one of the largest Afghan communities in the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>Fremont was like a magnet for Afghans to come and join this beautiful city. And one reason that it’s a big attractive factor for Afghans is definitely this landscape, the beauty, the geography, and the weather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>It doesn’t hurt that the East Bay has these majestic hills, which remind Afghans of home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When you see these hills, it’s really reminiscent of those beautiful memories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Fremont’s Afghan community has been growing for decades. Masoud says you can break it down into four – distinct waves, each based on a moment of conflict and political change in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first wave of immigration began in the late 1970s when the USSR invaded Afghanistan and took control of Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News Clip: \u003c/strong>In 1979, the Soviet Union determined that Afghanistan would be a communist nation … forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The Soviet invasion and the U.S. decision to arm rebel groups within Afghanistan as part of a proxy Cold War kicked off decades of instability for Afghanistan. Millions were killed. And millions more fled as refugees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News Clip: \u003c/strong>In that decade of war, over 1,000 villages and towns have been destroyed by tanks and bombs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> The immigrants from that era were those who were persecuted by the communist regime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>They included religious minorities and people who’d held government jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> As well as civilians, ordinary civilians who did not feel safe to stay in the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Many Afghans fled to neighboring countries, like Iran and Pakistan. Others came to America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Some of them ended up in Virginia first, and then they knew somebody who had recently come to this part of the country, and they were satisfied. So then they talked together and they decided to join each other here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Like so many immigrant communities, Afghans came to California because that’s where they knew people. If entire families were to uproot their lives and move across the world, they needed to stick together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a weekly health event put on by the Afghan Elderly Association, women I met said they’d followed family members who’d come to Fremont for work or school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 1: \u003c/strong>My daughter, she went to San José State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 2: \u003c/strong>Aunts and uncle.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 3: \u003c/strong>My friend, my relative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Woman 2: \u003c/strong>Everybody was here in Fremont, so I came to join them, join the group.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi came to the Bay Area 47 years ago. But she still feels the pain of leaving Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> I was crying for two and a half years. We didn’t come by our choice. We were forced to leave the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa’s husband had worked for the Afghan government before the Soviet invasion. One day, they heard a knock at the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> They sent the notices that they’re going to arrest him and put him in jail. And even they told him to be ready when the soldiers come, go with them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>With just $1,000 to their names, Hanifa, her husband, and their two small children made their way to the Bay Area. Hanifa had a brother-in-law in San Jose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> By the time we came, we had $22 because most of the money was spent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hanifa says life was hard. They struggled to pay the mortgage, sometimes went without electricity. Eventually, she and her husband got political asylum and work permits, applied for jobs in the early days of Silicon Valley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi:\u003c/strong> But then, there is not a lot of people coming to San Jose, but mostly was coming to Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Almost immediately, Fremont became the center of Afghan life. Grocery stores like Maiwand Market sold tastes of home. And immigrants opened mosques, rug stores, and Halal butcher shops. And the City of Fremont supported them. It offered grants to help Afghan business owners get started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Slowly, it started to get built. Until this city was called Little Kabul, which is a very attractive name.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud Juya says Fremont was more affordable than bigger cities like San Francisco or Oakland. Plus, California had generous welfare benefits that helped people get resettled here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Afghans trickled into Fremont throughout the 1980s until the next big wave of immigration a decade later.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The second wave actually was in the 1990s, when Afghanistan was experiencing a civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip:\u003c/strong> The Shiite Southwest District of Kabul begin the latest battlefield in the fight to control Afghanistan’s capital.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The civil war was between different ethnic groups in Afghanistan and resulted in the Taliban’s rise to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Masoud remembers how tumultuous and disruptive that time was.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>I was actually in the primary school, and the war was terrible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>Rebels reportedly fired hundreds of rockets in the residential area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>A lot of homes were destroyed due to the civil war, and our home was no exception. So every Afghan was doing their best to get out of the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Again, many Afghans came to the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When they ended up here, then the first question they asked was like, OK, which state has more Afghans? Let’s go and join our communities there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>When the \u003cem>second\u003c/em> wave of immigrants got to Fremont, the \u003cem>first\u003c/em> wave was ready to help them get settled. That’s how Masoud’s organization, the Afghan Coalition, was founded in 1996. Since then, they’ve offered social services to Afghan refugees, helping them find housing, jobs, and mental health support.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And it was around the time the Afghan Elderly Association started its work. The founders went door to door individually recruiting each member.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>I was working with this association for 16 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Here’s Hanifa Sai Tokhi again. After leaving Afghanistan during the Soviet Invasion, she eventually became a \u003cem>health promoter\u003c/em> for the Afghan Elderly Association. Her job was to bring culturally appropriate health services to older community members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>We were going with these ladies to advocate to the doctors and translate. Like sometimes they cannot read English, and we would ask what is this medicine for?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>But the organization knew that healthy living wasn’t just about medication and doctor’s visits. There needed to be a social element. So, they created the Healthy Aging Program. And, it still exists!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>They brought these ladies out of isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Here, each week, they offer a hot meal, exercise classes and medical check-ups from Afghan nurses who speak Farsi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hanifa Sai Tokhi: \u003c/strong>And also, there is some gossip, too. I have to have gossip.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Programs like this created more opportunities for immigrants to feel comfortable and connected when they got to Fremont. And for years, the city of Fremont’s Human Services Department collaborated with the Afghan Elderly Association. They provided staffing support, along with office and meeting spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And so with that second wave, the Afghan community was growing. Thriving in a Fremont bubble, until the 9/11 attacks put the international spotlight back on Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>We have a very tragic alert for you right now. An incredible plane crash into the World Trade Center here at the lower tip of Manhattan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>George W. Bush: \u003c/strong>On my orders, the United States military has begun strikes against al-Qaeda terrorist training camps and military installations of the Taliban regime and Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The Taliban government was toppled post-9/11, and a new administration was built in Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>With the new government came a new constitution. It meant an end to the Taliban’s religious extremism, opportunities for women to work, and girls to get an education.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>So this was the beginning of a big change for Afghanistan. It was the first time after all those dark periods that Afghanistan was connected to the rest of the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Rather than needing to flee as refugees, people could finally come to the U.S. on cultural exchange programs or to study. But when they got here, they were faced with a very Islamophobic America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>When there is maybe an added layer of difficulty because of stigma, discrimination, or whatsoever, this in itself is also another factor that might motivate community members to come together so that they prevent themselves from additional threats or risks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud first came to the U.S. during this third wave after the fall of the Taliban. He wanted to learn as much as he could and bring that knowledge back to Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> We put into practice pretty much every bit of information we learned here. And we were really, in our own sense, we were really revolutionists in terms of helping Afghanistan develop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Inspired by his time in the States, he opened a successful university and a health science institute.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>And that’s why people like me were always staying there until we really had to leave post-2021.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>2021, when the United States \u003cem>withdrew\u003c/em> from Afghanistan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Joe Biden:\u003c/strong> I concluded it’s time to end America’s longest war. It’s time for American troops to come home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The Taliban took back control of the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>The Taliban advance appears unstoppable. Ruthless as ever, to those who stand in their way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This U.S. policy decision caused the fourth and most recent wave of immigration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>News clip: \u003c/strong>Now the Taliban is back, anyone who worked for the Afghan government has fled or is in hiding. Women and girls live in fear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud was also afraid. He had been at the forefront of trying to rebuild a more liberal, democratic Afghanistan. But now, all of that was smoke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> I was fighting hard as a member of my community against extremism. So I was really at high risk, and I had to leave as soon as I could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Masoud explored every avenue and eventually got out through an American Ph.D. program.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> But after I completed my Ph.D., then I was thinking of staying somewhere for a stable life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>The obvious choice: Fremont. Masoud is one of roughly 10,000 Afghans who ended up in California after the 2021 withdrawal. And this time, the refugees came from all parts of Afghan society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya: \u003c/strong>The fourth wave is actually a very, very different group of people: vocalists, musicians, academics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Journalists and human rights advocates, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> More importantly, people who really worked with the Afghan government and the U.S. Government.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Including members of the U.S. military and allied forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> But then there were also some civilians who just went to the airport because they are also afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>You might remember news footage of desperate Afghans sprinting after U.S. military planes trying to get onboard. Some even held onto the wings as the planes took off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> People who were really scared of their lives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>As these horrific scenes unfolded, the city of Fremont again stepped up to support the Afghan community. It raised $485,000 for an Afghan Refugee Help Fund … to help pay for things like filing immigration documents, temporary housing, mental health resources, and driving lessons for recent arrivals. This was done in collaboration with Afghan organizations and businesses. As ever, those who had already established themselves mobilized to help newcomers. And new immigrants leveraged what earlier waves had built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Yeah, all these resources that Afghans created, institutions that they built, connections that they had, the knowledge that they have from navigating the U.S. System, I think they were all transferred into the new waves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>When Masoud got to Fremont, his expertise building institutions in Afghanistan made him the perfect guy for a job at the Afghan Coalition, helping other refugees get settled. But he was one of the lucky few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> Afghans come here, and I see they were professionals back home. They come here, but they cannot find a professional job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This fourth wave is bigger than the prior ones. And people don’t have the skills to fit into the Bay Area’s high-tech, AI-driven economy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Masoud Juya:\u003c/strong> So I see a lot of frustration for some of the young, talented Afghans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>One of those young, talented Afghans is Hasib Sepand. He arrived in Fremont before the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan and started a music school, called The Sepand Academy … Just six months later, the Taliban came back to power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Nobody was interested in music, even myself. So, we were like mentally very depressed. I didn’t have that courage to play music. Because my family’s over there.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Like Hasib, his family were musicians. And Hasib’s siblings had also worked with the American Army. Because of that, they were able to qualify for Special Immigrant Visas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> And the last American plane that flew from Afghanistan included my family. It’s like a film.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hasib was so grateful his family made it to safety, he wanted to help other newcomers. With the city’s help, Hasib offered three months of free music classes to new arrivals. They sang and played instruments like the tabla and sitar. You’re hearing them play now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of music class playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> I tried to give a positive energy, especially for the newcomers, because they face a lot of problems. They face stress, depression, different culture, different language, sometimes no job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Hasib says before he came to Fremont — before he knew anything about how hard it would be to live in the U.S. — he thought it would be a more glamorous place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand: \u003c/strong>My Afghan friends, they used to tell me, “OK, so you are going to Fremont. Oh my god. That’s a dream city.” And they gave me kind of like wrong imagination.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>This was not the “America” Hasib had pictured. But as he’s watched the community come together to support one another, he’s come to love this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Now, to me, it looks a hundred times better than every place in America because I live here and I have friends and I enjoy everything in Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>He says he loves the people, the fellowship created at local Afghan bakeries and banquet halls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Hasib Sepand:\u003c/strong> Right now, I feel that I’m in Afghanistan. I’m in my hometown. Most of the time, I don’t speak English because everywhere I go is like Afghans. And when my friends come from Canada or from Europe, they are jealous. I love Fremont.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Asal Ehsanipour: \u003c/strong>Or as Hasib calls it: Little Kabul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> That was reporter Asal Ehsanipour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fremont’s Afghan community is under threat once again. President Trump recently announced plans to end temporary protected status for a host of countries, including Afghanistan. The administration also put a halt to most refugee resettlements programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The other big difficulty facing this community is cost of living in the Bay Area. More Afghans are choosing to settle in Sacramento than Fremont now because it’s more affordable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As you may have heard, this is a perilous time for public media and KQED. So, if you have a moment, head on over to kqed dot org slash donate. Every little bit helps to support the shows you love, and we appreciate you so much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "150,000 People Live in Unincorporated Alameda County. What Does That Mean for Them?",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a fire station in the East Bay, on Meekland Avenue, with a mosaic depicting big homes in a pastoral landscape. It evokes a time long ago when this area, the stretch of the East Bay flats sandwiched between San Leandro and Hayward, was known for its orchards. \u003ca href=\"https://cargocollective.com/davidburke/Public-Projects-by-Hungry-Ghost-Studio\">A local artist named David Burke created the mosaic\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the artist’s friend, Sam Hopkins, learned about the project at the Cherryland Fire Station, he remembered slogging through traffic on the 238 connector between I-580 and I-880 and seeing somewhat mystifying signs that said “entering Cherryland” and “entering Ashland.” He thought to himself, “Where’s Cherryland?” When Hopkins finally stopped by to see his friend’s work at \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/cda/ecd/projects/cherryland_fire_station.htm\">the single-engine fire station\u003c/a>, he noticed something. “It says Alameda County Fire Department,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he looked it up, he realized that sprinkled throughout the densely residential East Bay flats are several unincorporated areas, two of which are called Ashland and Cherryland. Hopkins hadn’t even realized they were there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He wondered: “What is the history behind Ashland and Cherryland, two unincorporated communities in the East Bay? What defines an ‘unincorporated’ community?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Named for the cherry orchards and ash trees that used to grow in this area in the early 1900s, these places wedged between San Leandro and Hayward are urban now and they deal with some of the same issues as other Bay Area communities, but also come with consequences for residents’ ability to access political representation, housing protections and a sense of community identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Welcome to unincorporated Alameda County\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About 10% of Alameda County’s population lives on unincorporated land. That means they aren’t part of any of the county’s cities and don’t have city departments for public services like fire, police or public works. And, they often pay lower property taxes because of this setup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, the roughly 150,000 people who live in unincorporated Alameda County depend on the county for those things, which often confuses new residents to the area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048404\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048404\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Keith Barros, a longtime San Lorenzo resident and community advocate, walks through a neighborhood in the unincorporated area of Alameda County on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I live in San Leandro, so I’m gonna call the San Leandro police department,” said Keith Barros, a longtime resident of Ashland, giving an example of a mixup. “[But if] you call the San Leandro Police Department, it’s like, ‘I’m sorry, you’re not in our jurisdiction. You need to call the Alameda County Sheriff.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>East Bay residents who live in cities like Oakland or Hayward don’t have this problem because police and fire are among the many services provided by their city governments, funded by local taxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One big issue Barros, a former UPS driver, has been fighting for is formal recognition of their community identity on legal mail. Until recently, unincorporated residents had to list the nearest city as their official addresses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, for example, Ashland residents would list their addresses with San Leandro, even though they aren’t part of the city. Earlier this year, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/cda/addresschange.htm\">county successfully petitioned the U.S. Postal Service\u003c/a> to allow it to list the community, like Cherryland or Ashland, as its official address.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048410\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Ashland Youth Center in an unincorporated area of Alameda County on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And there have been other wins as well. Barros advocated for building the \u003ca href=\"https://reachashland.org/\">REACH Ashland Youth Center\u003c/a> on a once-blighted property.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This area has needed something like this. The youth of this area, for a long time, just didn’t have a place to go,” Barros said. “It gives them a sense of community, a sense of identity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The youth center feels like a victory on a lot of fronts because one of the most difficult aspects of being unincorporated is that there’s no hyperlocal government to reach out to for help. Instead, residents like Barros have to go to the county board of supervisors, where they’ve had limited success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ashland and Cherryland, in particular, there’s more of a transient population that lives here,” Barros said. “A lot of renters, they’ve been kind of disenfranchised from the political process, because they haven’t really had any representation of any kind. There’s no city council, nothing like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048408\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048408\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for Cherryland, an unincorporated area of Alameda County, on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Barros said even though Alameda County supervisors are their elected representatives, they have bigger, countywide issues on their plates. Unincorporated residents said it has been hard to get them to pay attention to their local needs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I really don’t like injustice,” Barros said. “I don’t like it when things are not fair.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Barros spent years organizing his neighbors to push for their own advisory council that would advocate for Ashland and Cherryland to the county board. In 2020, they formed the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/bc/emac/aboutus.htm\">Eden Area Municipal Advisory Council\u003c/a>. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/edenareavision/documents/EALICommunityProfile.pdf\">Eden Area\u003c/a> is the collective term for a 25-square-mile section of unincorporated area that includes Ashland, Cherryland, Castro Valley, Fairview, and San Lorenzo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Their voices are being heard, and they’re there,” Barros said. “Their opinions are making their way up to where they need to, at the [County] Board of Supervisors, because that’s our governing body.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Organizing to protect tenants\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the first issues the council worked on was renter protections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The thing about representing the unincorporated area, when we looked at it, it had no community power,” said Claudia Albano, deputy chief of staff for Alameda County Supervisor Nate Miley, who represents most of the urban unincorporated areas. “The only people who had community power were the landlords, the real estate industry.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048407\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048407\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A home under construction in Cherryland, an unincorporated area of Alameda County, on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It has been Albano’s job over the past eight years to bring different community groups together and help them advocate for themselves. And one of the biggest issues is that renters in unincorporated areas aren’t protected by rental laws that individual cities pass. They are more vulnerable to eviction in a power imbalance favoring landlords.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It has been terrible,” said Elena Torres, a low-income renter in the area. “Like in my case, I have a two-year battle with my landlord.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Torres said she asked her landlord to get rid of a roach infestation and to fix things like a broken furnace and water heater. Instead, he evicted her from the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her husband and daughter.[aside postID=news_12044710 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/P1000647_qed.jpg']“They have no real cause for eviction, but they decide only because you are asking [for it] to be fixed, you are out,” Torres said. “Eviction is a business practice for them, in order to not take the responsibilities. And it’s not fair.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The experience prompted Torres to get involved with a social justice group called \u003ca href=\"https://www.myedenvoice.org/\">My Eden Voice\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years ago, the organization \u003ca href=\"https://ebho.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/In-the-Shadows-of-Eden-Report.pdf\">issued a report\u003c/a> that found many residents in unincorporated areas are forced to live in housing that would normally be considered uninhabitable, endure verbal abuse from landlords, and live in fear of eviction, all while having no clear avenues to get help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you go and make a complaint that he’s harassing you, if you call the sheriff, the sheriff can’t do anything because it’s his property,” Torres said. “So you have to go to the actual court and go through the process.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite winning in court, Torres said her landlord was set on evicting her one way or another. She pleaded to her representatives on the county board of supervisors for help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I even sent them letters. I tell them the situation. I tell them the issues that the tenants are having and they didn’t do anything,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048399\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048399\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Elena Torres, evicted from her previous home in an unincorporated area of Alameda County, holds a drawing her daughter made during their housing struggle at their new home in Hayward on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Torres didn’t want to move to a nearby city with stricter rental protections already in place because her daughter is thriving at her current school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not that simple because my daughter has been an honor student for eight years in a row,” she said. “The only thing I can give my daughter is education. That’s a legacy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Torres and her family were forced out of their apartment in January of this year, she and her daughter moved in with a friend — who was also facing eviction — while her husband lived in their only car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Torres kept reaching out to the county for help, but she was frustrated at their response and the slow pace of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048396\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048396\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Elena Torres stands outside her new home in Hayward on July 16, 2025, after being displaced from her previous home in an unincorporated area — a change that led her to get involved with My Eden Voice, where she now advocates for housing justice. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We are the ones dealing with landlords,” she said. “They are not the ones losing everything. I lose everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After five years of discussion, \u003ca href=\"https://ebho.org/eden-area-renters-win-key-vote-in-years-long-battle-for-tenants-rights/#:~:text=For%20single%20mother%20Zuleny%20Pais,Board%20can%20protect%20our%20families.%E2%80%9D\">Alameda County supervisors passed just cause protections\u003c/a> in February, which included protecting families from being evicted during the school year and ending retaliatory evictions after tenants attempt to assert their rights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “just cause” protections are rights that tenants in other Bay Area cities have long enjoyed. Renting in an unincorporated community just got a little bit easier. After six months living separately in makeshift accommodations, Torres recently found her family a new place to live together under one roof.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> On the east side of the bay, towns fan out across the flatlands, sandwiched between the East Bay hills and the water. Oakland is the biggest, of course, but drive south from there and you’re soon in San Leandro, Hayward, Union City and Fremont. But there are some far less well-known communities hidden in that same stretch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachel Osajima: \u003c/strong>Thank you for being here for the Ashland-Cherryland community identifier ribbon cutting ceremony. \u003cem>(sounds of crowd cheering)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Ashland and Cherryland are two unincorporated communities wedged between San Leandro and Hayward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bill Ouirk: \u003c/strong>They want to be recognized as communities. As Ashland, as Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The thing is, it’s really easy to miss these places. That’s why \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/board/bos_calendar/documents/DocsAgendaReg_6_29_16/GENERAL%20ADMINISTRATION/Regular%20Calendar/Identifier_Mural_Draft_report_6_29_16.pdf\">the county commissioned a muralist \u003c/a>to paint an overpass on East 14th Street. One side reads Ashland and the other Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barisha Spriggs: \u003c/strong>We’re very proud of this accomplishment. That this will be a lasting memento to all of our unincorporated communities for years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious listener, Sam Hopkins, was one of the many people who hadn’t thought much…if ever… about these places until recently. His friend was asked to work on a mosaic at a fire station in Cherryland. When Sam heard that, he thought to himself: Where’s Cherryland? And when he saw on the map that both Ashland and Cherryland are smack in the middle of the East Bay, he got curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sam Hopkins: \u003c/strong>What is the history behind Ashland and Cherryland, two unincorporated communities in the East Bay? What defines an “unincorporated” community?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Named for the cherry orchards and ash trees that used to grow in this area in the early 1900s, these places are definitely urban now, and they deal with some of the same issues as other Bay Area communities. Today on the show, we’ll explain what it means for an area to be “unincorporated.” It turns out living in one of these communities has big consequences for residents’ ability to access political representation and housing protections. I’m Katrina Schwartz, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alameda is the second most populous county in the Bay Area…after Santa Clara. Oakland is the biggest city, but the county stretches all the way out to Livermore in the East and Fremont in the South. It’s a big swath of land, and about half of it is “unincorporated,” including two areas known as Cherryland and Ashland. KQED reporter Brian Krans set out to discover more about the day-to-day realities of living in an unincorporated area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans:\u003c/strong> About 10% of Alameda County’s population lives on unincorporated land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That means they aren’t part of any of the county’s cities and don’t have city departments for public services like fire, police or public works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, people who live in unincorporated communities like Cherryland and Ashland depend on the county for those things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>This is 94578, which is a San Leandro zip code. But it’s not, it’s not the city of San Leandro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith Barros knows all about the headaches that come with being unincorporated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says a lot of times, residents themselves don’t know that \u003cem>where they live\u003c/em> is unincorporated, leading to mistakes like this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>So, okay, I live in San Leandro, so I’m gonna call the San Leandro police department. You call the San Leandro Police Department. It’s like, I’m sorry, you’re not in our jurisdiction. You need to call the Alameda County Sheriff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>East Bay residents who live in cities don’t have this problem. If they need to call the police or fire department, it’s a city service. But for the roughly 150,000 people who live in unincorporated Alameda County, it’s not that simple. They depend on county-level services, like the sheriff or county fire department, in an emergency. And as so often happens, that adversity has made residents even more invested in their community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Because I think those of us here, number one, we want to hold on to our own identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith is proud that he’s from unincorporated Alameda County and has worked to gain recognition for the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Where we happen to be standing right now, this used to be a blighted property.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Take the Ashland REACH center where we’re standing. Keith advocated hard to get this youth center built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>This area has needed something like this. The youth of this area, for a long time, just didn’t have a place to go. It gives them a sense of community, a sense of identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>The youth center feels like a victory on a lot of fronts because one of the most difficult aspects of being unincorporated is that there’s no city council to complain to when things need doing. Instead, residents like Keith have to go to the county board of supervisors. And it’s been tough to get folks organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Ashland and Cherryland, in particular, are more there’s more of a transient population that lives here. A lot of renters, and they’ve been, they’re kind of disenfranchised from the political process, because they haven’t really had any representation of any kind. There’s no city council, nothing like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith says even though the Alameda County supervisors are their elected representatives, they have big countywide issues on their plates. It’s hard to get them to pay attention to local needs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>I really don’t like injustice. I don’t like it when things are not fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>He spent years organizing his neighbors to push for their own advisory council that would advocate for Ashland and Cherryland to the county board. They finally formed the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/bc/emac/aboutus.htm\">Eden Area Municipal Advisory Council\u003c/a> in 2020. “Eden Area” is the collective name for Ashland and Cherryland and several other nearby unincorporated areas together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>They’re being heard. Their voices are being heard, and they’re there. Their opinions are, you know, are making their way up to where they need to, at the Board of Supervisors, because that’s our governing body.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>One of the first issues the council worked on was renter protections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Claudia Albano: \u003c/strong>The thing about representing the unincorporated area, when we looked at it, it had no community power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Claudia Albano is the Deputy Chief of Staff for Alameda County Supervisor Nate Miley … who represents most of the urban unincorporated areas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Claudia Albano: \u003c/strong>The only people who had community power were the small the landlords, the real estate industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>It has been Claudia’s job over the past eight years to bring together different community groups and help them advocate for themselves. And one of the biggest issues is that renters in unincorporated areas aren’t protected by rental laws that individual cities pass, making them more vulnerable to eviction. That’s left an imbalance of power in communities like Ashland and Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Low-income renters like Elena Torres have paid the price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>It has been terrible. Like in my case, I have a two-years battle with my landlord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>She says she asked her landlord to get rid of a roach infestation and to fix things like a broken furnace and water heater. Instead, he evicted her from the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her husband and daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>They have no real cause for eviction, but they decide only because you are asking to be fixed, to have any reparation. You are out. Eviction is a business practice for them, in order to not take the responsibilities. And it’s not fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>The experience prompted Elena to get involved with a social justice group called My Eden Voice. Two years ago, the organization issued a report that found many residents in unincorporated areas are forced to live in housing that would normally be considered uninhabitable, endure verbal abuse from landlords, and live in fear of eviction. And they don’t have clear avenues to get help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>If you go and make a complaint, he’s harassing you, if you call the sheriff, the sheriff can’t do anything, because it’s his property. So you have to go to the court, to the actual court, and go through the process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Despite winning in court, Elena said her landlord was set on evicting her one way or another. She pleaded to her representatives on the county board of supervisors for help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres:\u003c/strong> I even sent them letters. I tell them the situation. I tell them the issues that the tenants are having, and they didn’t do anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Elena and her family were forced out of their apartment in January of this year. She and her daughter moved in with a friend who was also facing eviction, while her husband lived in their only car. Elena kept reaching out to the county for help, but was frustrated at their response and the slow pace of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>We are the ones dealing with landlords. They are not the ones losing everything. I lose everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Elena didn’t want to move to a nearby city with stricter rental protections already in place because her daughter is thriving at her current school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>It’s not that simple because my daughter has been an honor student for eight years in a row. The only thing I can give my daughter is education. That’s a legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>After five years of discussion, Alameda County supervisors passed just cause protections in February, which included protecting families from being evicted during the school year and ending retaliatory evictions after tenants attempt to assert their rights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “just cause” protections are rights that tenants in other Bay Area cities have long enjoyed. Living in an unincorporated community just got a little bit easier. Especially now that Elena recently found a new place for her family and they’re celebrating being under one roof together — a first in six months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> That was KQED reporter Brian Krans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to our question-asker, Sam Hopkins. His question won a Bay Curious voting round. You can vote on what we cover next, by heading to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/baycurious\">kqed.org slash baycurious\u003c/a>. And while you’re there, consider making a donation to KQED. As you may have heard, this is a perilous time for public media and every little bit helps to support the shows you love. Thank you so much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a fire station in the East Bay, on Meekland Avenue, with a mosaic depicting big homes in a pastoral landscape. It evokes a time long ago when this area, the stretch of the East Bay flats sandwiched between San Leandro and Hayward, was known for its orchards. \u003ca href=\"https://cargocollective.com/davidburke/Public-Projects-by-Hungry-Ghost-Studio\">A local artist named David Burke created the mosaic\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the artist’s friend, Sam Hopkins, learned about the project at the Cherryland Fire Station, he remembered slogging through traffic on the 238 connector between I-580 and I-880 and seeing somewhat mystifying signs that said “entering Cherryland” and “entering Ashland.” He thought to himself, “Where’s Cherryland?” When Hopkins finally stopped by to see his friend’s work at \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/cda/ecd/projects/cherryland_fire_station.htm\">the single-engine fire station\u003c/a>, he noticed something. “It says Alameda County Fire Department,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When he looked it up, he realized that sprinkled throughout the densely residential East Bay flats are several unincorporated areas, two of which are called Ashland and Cherryland. Hopkins hadn’t even realized they were there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He wondered: “What is the history behind Ashland and Cherryland, two unincorporated communities in the East Bay? What defines an ‘unincorporated’ community?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Named for the cherry orchards and ash trees that used to grow in this area in the early 1900s, these places wedged between San Leandro and Hayward are urban now and they deal with some of the same issues as other Bay Area communities, but also come with consequences for residents’ ability to access political representation, housing protections and a sense of community identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Welcome to unincorporated Alameda County\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About 10% of Alameda County’s population lives on unincorporated land. That means they aren’t part of any of the county’s cities and don’t have city departments for public services like fire, police or public works. And, they often pay lower property taxes because of this setup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, the roughly 150,000 people who live in unincorporated Alameda County depend on the county for those things, which often confuses new residents to the area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048404\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048404\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-14-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Keith Barros, a longtime San Lorenzo resident and community advocate, walks through a neighborhood in the unincorporated area of Alameda County on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I live in San Leandro, so I’m gonna call the San Leandro police department,” said Keith Barros, a longtime resident of Ashland, giving an example of a mixup. “[But if] you call the San Leandro Police Department, it’s like, ‘I’m sorry, you’re not in our jurisdiction. You need to call the Alameda County Sheriff.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>East Bay residents who live in cities like Oakland or Hayward don’t have this problem because police and fire are among the many services provided by their city governments, funded by local taxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One big issue Barros, a former UPS driver, has been fighting for is formal recognition of their community identity on legal mail. Until recently, unincorporated residents had to list the nearest city as their official addresses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, for example, Ashland residents would list their addresses with San Leandro, even though they aren’t part of the city. Earlier this year, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/cda/addresschange.htm\">county successfully petitioned the U.S. Postal Service\u003c/a> to allow it to list the community, like Cherryland or Ashland, as its official address.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048410\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-33-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Ashland Youth Center in an unincorporated area of Alameda County on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And there have been other wins as well. Barros advocated for building the \u003ca href=\"https://reachashland.org/\">REACH Ashland Youth Center\u003c/a> on a once-blighted property.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This area has needed something like this. The youth of this area, for a long time, just didn’t have a place to go,” Barros said. “It gives them a sense of community, a sense of identity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The youth center feels like a victory on a lot of fronts because one of the most difficult aspects of being unincorporated is that there’s no hyperlocal government to reach out to for help. Instead, residents like Barros have to go to the county board of supervisors, where they’ve had limited success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ashland and Cherryland, in particular, there’s more of a transient population that lives here,” Barros said. “A lot of renters, they’ve been kind of disenfranchised from the political process, because they haven’t really had any representation of any kind. There’s no city council, nothing like that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048408\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048408\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-31-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for Cherryland, an unincorporated area of Alameda County, on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Barros said even though Alameda County supervisors are their elected representatives, they have bigger, countywide issues on their plates. Unincorporated residents said it has been hard to get them to pay attention to their local needs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I really don’t like injustice,” Barros said. “I don’t like it when things are not fair.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Barros spent years organizing his neighbors to push for their own advisory council that would advocate for Ashland and Cherryland to the county board. In 2020, they formed the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/bc/emac/aboutus.htm\">Eden Area Municipal Advisory Council\u003c/a>. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/edenareavision/documents/EALICommunityProfile.pdf\">Eden Area\u003c/a> is the collective term for a 25-square-mile section of unincorporated area that includes Ashland, Cherryland, Castro Valley, Fairview, and San Lorenzo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Their voices are being heard, and they’re there,” Barros said. “Their opinions are making their way up to where they need to, at the [County] Board of Supervisors, because that’s our governing body.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Organizing to protect tenants\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the first issues the council worked on was renter protections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The thing about representing the unincorporated area, when we looked at it, it had no community power,” said Claudia Albano, deputy chief of staff for Alameda County Supervisor Nate Miley, who represents most of the urban unincorporated areas. “The only people who had community power were the landlords, the real estate industry.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048407\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048407\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-30-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A home under construction in Cherryland, an unincorporated area of Alameda County, on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It has been Albano’s job over the past eight years to bring different community groups together and help them advocate for themselves. And one of the biggest issues is that renters in unincorporated areas aren’t protected by rental laws that individual cities pass. They are more vulnerable to eviction in a power imbalance favoring landlords.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It has been terrible,” said Elena Torres, a low-income renter in the area. “Like in my case, I have a two-year battle with my landlord.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Torres said she asked her landlord to get rid of a roach infestation and to fix things like a broken furnace and water heater. Instead, he evicted her from the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her husband and daughter.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“They have no real cause for eviction, but they decide only because you are asking [for it] to be fixed, you are out,” Torres said. “Eviction is a business practice for them, in order to not take the responsibilities. And it’s not fair.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The experience prompted Torres to get involved with a social justice group called \u003ca href=\"https://www.myedenvoice.org/\">My Eden Voice\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years ago, the organization \u003ca href=\"https://ebho.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/In-the-Shadows-of-Eden-Report.pdf\">issued a report\u003c/a> that found many residents in unincorporated areas are forced to live in housing that would normally be considered uninhabitable, endure verbal abuse from landlords, and live in fear of eviction, all while having no clear avenues to get help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you go and make a complaint that he’s harassing you, if you call the sheriff, the sheriff can’t do anything because it’s his property,” Torres said. “So you have to go to the actual court and go through the process.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite winning in court, Torres said her landlord was set on evicting her one way or another. She pleaded to her representatives on the county board of supervisors for help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I even sent them letters. I tell them the situation. I tell them the issues that the tenants are having and they didn’t do anything,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048399\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048399\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-05-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Elena Torres, evicted from her previous home in an unincorporated area of Alameda County, holds a drawing her daughter made during their housing struggle at their new home in Hayward on July 16, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Torres didn’t want to move to a nearby city with stricter rental protections already in place because her daughter is thriving at her current school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not that simple because my daughter has been an honor student for eight years in a row,” she said. “The only thing I can give my daughter is education. That’s a legacy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Torres and her family were forced out of their apartment in January of this year, she and her daughter moved in with a friend — who was also facing eviction — while her husband lived in their only car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Torres kept reaching out to the county for help, but she was frustrated at their response and the slow pace of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12048396\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12048396\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/07/250716-CherrylandUnincorporated-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Elena Torres stands outside her new home in Hayward on July 16, 2025, after being displaced from her previous home in an unincorporated area — a change that led her to get involved with My Eden Voice, where she now advocates for housing justice. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We are the ones dealing with landlords,” she said. “They are not the ones losing everything. I lose everything.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After five years of discussion, \u003ca href=\"https://ebho.org/eden-area-renters-win-key-vote-in-years-long-battle-for-tenants-rights/#:~:text=For%20single%20mother%20Zuleny%20Pais,Board%20can%20protect%20our%20families.%E2%80%9D\">Alameda County supervisors passed just cause protections\u003c/a> in February, which included protecting families from being evicted during the school year and ending retaliatory evictions after tenants attempt to assert their rights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “just cause” protections are rights that tenants in other Bay Area cities have long enjoyed. Renting in an unincorporated community just got a little bit easier. After six months living separately in makeshift accommodations, Torres recently found her family a new place to live together under one roof.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> On the east side of the bay, towns fan out across the flatlands, sandwiched between the East Bay hills and the water. Oakland is the biggest, of course, but drive south from there and you’re soon in San Leandro, Hayward, Union City and Fremont. But there are some far less well-known communities hidden in that same stretch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachel Osajima: \u003c/strong>Thank you for being here for the Ashland-Cherryland community identifier ribbon cutting ceremony. \u003cem>(sounds of crowd cheering)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Ashland and Cherryland are two unincorporated communities wedged between San Leandro and Hayward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bill Ouirk: \u003c/strong>They want to be recognized as communities. As Ashland, as Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The thing is, it’s really easy to miss these places. That’s why \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/board/bos_calendar/documents/DocsAgendaReg_6_29_16/GENERAL%20ADMINISTRATION/Regular%20Calendar/Identifier_Mural_Draft_report_6_29_16.pdf\">the county commissioned a muralist \u003c/a>to paint an overpass on East 14th Street. One side reads Ashland and the other Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barisha Spriggs: \u003c/strong>We’re very proud of this accomplishment. That this will be a lasting memento to all of our unincorporated communities for years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious listener, Sam Hopkins, was one of the many people who hadn’t thought much…if ever… about these places until recently. His friend was asked to work on a mosaic at a fire station in Cherryland. When Sam heard that, he thought to himself: Where’s Cherryland? And when he saw on the map that both Ashland and Cherryland are smack in the middle of the East Bay, he got curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sam Hopkins: \u003c/strong>What is the history behind Ashland and Cherryland, two unincorporated communities in the East Bay? What defines an “unincorporated” community?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Named for the cherry orchards and ash trees that used to grow in this area in the early 1900s, these places are definitely urban now, and they deal with some of the same issues as other Bay Area communities. Today on the show, we’ll explain what it means for an area to be “unincorporated.” It turns out living in one of these communities has big consequences for residents’ ability to access political representation and housing protections. I’m Katrina Schwartz, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alameda is the second most populous county in the Bay Area…after Santa Clara. Oakland is the biggest city, but the county stretches all the way out to Livermore in the East and Fremont in the South. It’s a big swath of land, and about half of it is “unincorporated,” including two areas known as Cherryland and Ashland. KQED reporter Brian Krans set out to discover more about the day-to-day realities of living in an unincorporated area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans:\u003c/strong> About 10% of Alameda County’s population lives on unincorporated land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That means they aren’t part of any of the county’s cities and don’t have city departments for public services like fire, police or public works.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, people who live in unincorporated communities like Cherryland and Ashland depend on the county for those things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>This is 94578, which is a San Leandro zip code. But it’s not, it’s not the city of San Leandro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith Barros knows all about the headaches that come with being unincorporated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says a lot of times, residents themselves don’t know that \u003cem>where they live\u003c/em> is unincorporated, leading to mistakes like this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>So, okay, I live in San Leandro, so I’m gonna call the San Leandro police department. You call the San Leandro Police Department. It’s like, I’m sorry, you’re not in our jurisdiction. You need to call the Alameda County Sheriff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>East Bay residents who live in cities don’t have this problem. If they need to call the police or fire department, it’s a city service. But for the roughly 150,000 people who live in unincorporated Alameda County, it’s not that simple. They depend on county-level services, like the sheriff or county fire department, in an emergency. And as so often happens, that adversity has made residents even more invested in their community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Because I think those of us here, number one, we want to hold on to our own identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith is proud that he’s from unincorporated Alameda County and has worked to gain recognition for the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Where we happen to be standing right now, this used to be a blighted property.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Take the Ashland REACH center where we’re standing. Keith advocated hard to get this youth center built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>This area has needed something like this. The youth of this area, for a long time, just didn’t have a place to go. It gives them a sense of community, a sense of identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>The youth center feels like a victory on a lot of fronts because one of the most difficult aspects of being unincorporated is that there’s no city council to complain to when things need doing. Instead, residents like Keith have to go to the county board of supervisors. And it’s been tough to get folks organized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>Ashland and Cherryland, in particular, are more there’s more of a transient population that lives here. A lot of renters, and they’ve been, they’re kind of disenfranchised from the political process, because they haven’t really had any representation of any kind. There’s no city council, nothing like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Keith says even though the Alameda County supervisors are their elected representatives, they have big countywide issues on their plates. It’s hard to get them to pay attention to local needs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>I really don’t like injustice. I don’t like it when things are not fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>He spent years organizing his neighbors to push for their own advisory council that would advocate for Ashland and Cherryland to the county board. They finally formed the \u003ca href=\"https://www.acgov.org/bc/emac/aboutus.htm\">Eden Area Municipal Advisory Council\u003c/a> in 2020. “Eden Area” is the collective name for Ashland and Cherryland and several other nearby unincorporated areas together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Barros: \u003c/strong>They’re being heard. Their voices are being heard, and they’re there. Their opinions are, you know, are making their way up to where they need to, at the Board of Supervisors, because that’s our governing body.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>One of the first issues the council worked on was renter protections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Claudia Albano: \u003c/strong>The thing about representing the unincorporated area, when we looked at it, it had no community power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Claudia Albano is the Deputy Chief of Staff for Alameda County Supervisor Nate Miley … who represents most of the urban unincorporated areas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Claudia Albano: \u003c/strong>The only people who had community power were the small the landlords, the real estate industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>It has been Claudia’s job over the past eight years to bring together different community groups and help them advocate for themselves. And one of the biggest issues is that renters in unincorporated areas aren’t protected by rental laws that individual cities pass, making them more vulnerable to eviction. That’s left an imbalance of power in communities like Ashland and Cherryland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Low-income renters like Elena Torres have paid the price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>It has been terrible. Like in my case, I have a two-years battle with my landlord.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>She says she asked her landlord to get rid of a roach infestation and to fix things like a broken furnace and water heater. Instead, he evicted her from the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her husband and daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>They have no real cause for eviction, but they decide only because you are asking to be fixed, to have any reparation. You are out. Eviction is a business practice for them, in order to not take the responsibilities. And it’s not fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>The experience prompted Elena to get involved with a social justice group called My Eden Voice. Two years ago, the organization issued a report that found many residents in unincorporated areas are forced to live in housing that would normally be considered uninhabitable, endure verbal abuse from landlords, and live in fear of eviction. And they don’t have clear avenues to get help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>If you go and make a complaint, he’s harassing you, if you call the sheriff, the sheriff can’t do anything, because it’s his property. So you have to go to the court, to the actual court, and go through the process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Despite winning in court, Elena said her landlord was set on evicting her one way or another. She pleaded to her representatives on the county board of supervisors for help.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres:\u003c/strong> I even sent them letters. I tell them the situation. I tell them the issues that the tenants are having, and they didn’t do anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Elena and her family were forced out of their apartment in January of this year. She and her daughter moved in with a friend who was also facing eviction, while her husband lived in their only car. Elena kept reaching out to the county for help, but was frustrated at their response and the slow pace of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>We are the ones dealing with landlords. They are not the ones losing everything. I lose everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>Elena didn’t want to move to a nearby city with stricter rental protections already in place because her daughter is thriving at her current school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Elena Torres: \u003c/strong>It’s not that simple because my daughter has been an honor student for eight years in a row. The only thing I can give my daughter is education. That’s a legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Krans: \u003c/strong>After five years of discussion, Alameda County supervisors passed just cause protections in February, which included protecting families from being evicted during the school year and ending retaliatory evictions after tenants attempt to assert their rights.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These “just cause” protections are rights that tenants in other Bay Area cities have long enjoyed. Living in an unincorporated community just got a little bit easier. Especially now that Elena recently found a new place for her family and they’re celebrating being under one roof together — a first in six months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> That was KQED reporter Brian Krans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to our question-asker, Sam Hopkins. His question won a Bay Curious voting round. You can vote on what we cover next, by heading to \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/baycurious\">kqed.org slash baycurious\u003c/a>. And while you’re there, consider making a donation to KQED. As you may have heard, this is a perilous time for public media and every little bit helps to support the shows you love. Thank you so much.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by the Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "what-is-that-massive-tunnel-on-the-beach-south-of-fort-funston",
"title": "What Is That Massive Tunnel on the Beach South of Fort Funston?",
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"headTitle": "What Is That Massive Tunnel on the Beach South of Fort Funston? | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The beach just south of Fort Funston looks like many in Northern California: a wide swath of sand stretches to the surf on one side, while on the other, steep sandy bluffs with succulents rise above. But walking along \u003ca href=\"https://www.californiabeaches.com/beach/phillip-burton-memorial-beach/\">Phillip Burton Memorial Beach\u003c/a>, sandwiched between Fort Funston and Thornton Beach access points, walkers may notice something unusual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a tunnel coming out of the hillside in the middle of the beach, kind of not close to anything,” said Francisco Alvarado.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alvarado spotted this mysterious tunnel one day while walking his chihuahua, Little Bean, on the beach. The opening is etched into the cliff, with its floor at about head height. When Alvarado climbed up to look inside, he realized the tunnel was big, about three feet across. The roof was smooth and flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just a very mysterious tunnel and I want to know what it was used for,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Near the tunnel, old wood pilings jut out of the ocean. They look like the remnants of a pier, so Alvarado wondered if this tunnel could be from an old train line. Or, maybe it’s got something to do with drainage?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding the tunnel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To get to the bottom of this tunnel mystery, I enlist Katryn Wiese, a professor of geology, oceanography and paleontology at College of San Mateo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’s very familiar with this beach and regularly brings her students here on field trips.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Basically this whole section of the coastline is very soft rock and it slides all the time,” says Wiese, in reference to \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/down-to-the-sea-again/\">the section of beach between San Francisco and Pacifica\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She says most people are unaware of the landslide risk, and don’t know that beaches like this can change with the seasons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041385\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041385\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Philip Burton Memorial Beach in San Francisco, on Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(David Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“So the sand piles up in the summer, and then throughout the winter, the heavier waves start excavating it,” pulling the sand back out to the ocean and uncovering rocks hidden below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means spring is the best time to see hidden treasures embedded in the rock cliff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s all these beautiful fossil-rich rocks right at the base of the cliff” on the north side of the stairs that take you down to the beach from the main Fort Funston parking lot, she said. “But you only can see them in the spring. Otherwise they’re covered with sand.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you look closely at the bottom of the cliff there, you can see clam fossils dating back almost a million years, Wiese says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I meet Wiese at low tide, the best time to see as much of the rocky cliff as possible and hopefully reveal more clues about what this tunnel might be. We walk south down the beach in search of the mysterious tunnel. In the distance, the wood pilings Alvarado described poke out of the surf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, we see it: a dark, cavernous opening in a part of the cliffside that juts out further than the rest. With our feet in the beach sand, looking up at the cliff, we see several layers of rock. The lowest layer is dark red and provides a slope we can climb up, like a welcome mat at the cliff’s base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032817\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032817\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A group of people pass by a tunnel entrance covered in rocks at Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, located between Thornton State Beach and Fort Funston Beach, in San Francisco on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Whenever something sticks out on a coastline, away from everything else, it’s because it’s made of more resistant rock,” Wiese explains. “As the waves come in, they’re going to naturally excavate the softest stuff [and] leave the hardest stuff behind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While all the rock in this region is fairly sandy, some of it is denser because it was compressed over time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She points out three distinct types of rock in front of us. They look like a layer cake, with the tunnel carved into the middle tier.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tunnel’s mouth has partially caved in, so we scramble closer for a better view.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041336\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041336\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A large tunnel in the cliffside is visible from Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, just south of Fort Funston. When this photo was taken, on May 5, 2024, the tunnel mouth was unobstructed. Later, a cave-in would partially block the opening. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Francisco Alvarado)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We see round marks on the sides of the tunnel’s entrance, like someone took a large ice cream scooper to the walls. Wiese says that it looks like the work of a human — she’s seen similar markings at man-made tunnels near Sutro Baths.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But she’s puzzled by how large the tunnel is — not likely the work of locals out for some fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we peer into the tunnel, it’s hard to see where, or if, it stops. So, I climb over the cave-in and slide down a short drop into the tunnel, where the crashing wave sounds from outside are much quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Several feet inside, the walls of the tunnel are round and smooth. I can stand — hunched over — near the mouth, but as I go deeper into the cliffside, the tunnel narrows and I drop to my hands and knees. The tunnel’s end is roughly 30 feet from its start.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041382\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041382\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Curious producer and editor Katrina Schwartz took her microphone into a tunnel on Phillip Burton Memorial Beach to see how far back it goes. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Katryn Wiese)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041409\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041409\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tunnel on Philip Burton Memorial Beach seen from the beach (right) and up close (left) in San Francisco, on Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The tale of a beach over time\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Wiese immediately had a theory about the tunnel’s origins, but wanted to check it by looking at older photos of the same spot. She clicked through the many she’s taken when she brings her students there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The tunnel was not there back in 2021,” she said. But she does spot it in her 2024 photos, and believes it probably started to form naturally in 2022 or 2023.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I saw how smooth the inside was, and I felt the rock is very, very soft, I realized that the waves have actually been smoothing it out throughout this storm season,” Wiese said. “If the waves have a hole and they can go in it, they’re gonna just start digging that hole deeper and deeper. That is a typical aspect of coastal erosion.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041337\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A large tunnel in the cliffside is visible from Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, just south of Fort Funston, May 5, 2024. After this photo was taken, a cave-in made the tunnel less accessible. (Courtesy Francisco Alvarado) \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Francisco Alvarado)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In one photo from January 2021, she pointed out where the first small indentation began. Over several winters, heavy waves battered the same spot in a soft rock layer, gradually excavating it, and creating the startlingly large tunnel I scurried through.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s excavating this softer layer, which is between two harder layers,” Wiese said. “That’s not a thin layer, it’s about 6 or 7 feet tall, so you get a large tunnel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, there were no pirate lairs, no long lost railroad tunnel used to smuggle Prohibition-era booze into San Francisco (I know you were thinking it). But the tunnel’s builder — the ocean — was an equally surprising culprit. It reminds us that the beach is constantly changing. Maybe the next time Alvarado walks Little Bean here, there will be no tunnel at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Francisco Alvarado likes to walk his Chihuahua, Little Bean, on the beach near Fort Funston, right on the border with Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>He is 13 years old. Brown big ears and we’ve been going to the beach his entire life, but he loves it down there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>One day, they strolled along a beach that will look familiar to Northern Californians: dramatic bluffs covered in sand and succulents. But then, Francisco saw something unusual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>It’s a tunnel coming out of the hillside in the middle of the beach, kind of not close to anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>If you stand on the beach at low tide, with your back to the ocean, he says you’ll see this elevated cave-like thing in the middle of a cliff. Its floor is around head-height. He climbed up to get a better look inside. It was bigger than he thought, maybe 3-feet wide, and it’s roof is smooth and flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>It’s just a very mysterious tunnel and I want to know what it was used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Since Francisco first saw this tunnel, his curiosity has consumed him. And he’s got some guesses about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>And it has some, like, poles or maybe we used to be a platform on, on the beach. I think the tunnel is like an old train tunnel or something from way back in the day. My sister who was with me that day, she thinks it’s an old like a storm drain runoff or something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>So we’ve got some theories. Today on Bay Curious we’ll visit Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, as it’s technically called, to see if we can find clues that tell us more about this mysterious tunnel. I’m Katrina Schwartz, you’re listening to Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Today we’re on a mission to find out more about a large tunnel carved into a cliff on the beach between Fort Funston and Thornton Beach. \u003cem>(Sounds of the beach) \u003c/em>To find some answers, I meet up with Katryn Wiese, a geology professor at College of San Mateo. We start at the large Fort Funston parking lot and pick our way down what looks to me like a huge sandy cliff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>We’re walking down the massive landslide that is Fort Funston. So this, up at the top there, was the original surface of this cliff, and this whole area we’re walking down here was a big landslide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>There are logs hammered into the slope — almost like a ladder — to help hikers navigate the sliding sand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Basically this whole section of the coastline is very soft rock and it slides all the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn tells me this beach can change dramatically depending on the season.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese:\u003c/strong> So the sand piles up in the summer, and then throughout the winter, the heavier waves start excavating it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That means there are hidden treasures here that can only be seen at certain times of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Back where we first came in at Fort Funston, there’s all these beautiful fossil-rich rocks right at the base of the cliff. But you only can see them in the spring. otherwise they’re covered with sand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Look closely at the bottom of the cliff and you can see clam fossils dating back almost a million years, Katryn says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today, we’re on the hunt for a tunnel, not fossils. Neither Katryn nor I have seen this tunnel yet, so as we amble south down the beach we keep our eyes peeled for what Francisco described.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape):\u003c/strong> I wonder if this is it coming up\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Let’s take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It’s definitely the right place. Francisco told us to look for two things: wood pilings sticking out of the nearby surf, and a cliff that juts farther into the Pacific than surrounding bluffs. Katryn and I walk over to get a closer look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>When you touch it, what do you feel?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>It’s pretty hard and it’s definitely very rough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>What grain size would you associate with that?\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Feels like sand to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>It’s very sandy, isn’t it? Yeah, so this is a sandstone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Little sand particles brush off when we rub the stone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>So whenever something sticks out on a coastline, away from everything else, it’s because it’s made of more resistant rock. So as the waves come in, they’re going to naturally excavate the softest stuff, leave the hardest stuff behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn says with soft rock like this, any little divet in the surface of the bluff can quickly become larger as the waves crash against it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>When the waves come in they’re going hit that same indentation. It’s going to funnel the water into that indentation. And it’s just going to get deeper and deeper and deeper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Looking up the cliff, we spot it! The mouth of the tunnel is barely visible about eight feet off the sand where we stand. When Francisco first saw it, the opening was much more obvious, but since then it looks like the mouth of the tunnel has collapsed, partially blocking the entrance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>I’m going to go up and take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>We climb up a rocky shelf that gets us close enough to peer in, over the sandy rubble. It really is big — large enough for me to stand up hunched over. And it’s deep. We debate whether it’s safe to go inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Well, and it certainly goes back, I mean, 12, 15 feet, from what we can even see. So, like, if you were 15 feet back and then it caved in, that would be really bad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>It’s so tempting, though. And it’s not so much that I’m worried about the tunnel caving in. I’m worried about the collapse of the entrance. So this collapsed, we don’t know when, but it was recent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn admits to being let’s say \u003cem>wary\u003c/em> of confined spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>You need to get someone who’s braver than me, because I don’t want to go back in there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But the allure of solving this mystery is just too much for me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>I’m going into this tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I hand Katryn my backpack and clutch my recorder as I climb over the cave-in and slide down several feet of sand into near darkness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Ok, so I’m down in here. You can hear it’s a lot quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It looks like someone has used a big ice cream scoop on the side of the tunnel near the entrance. The marks look similar to ones in a tunnel from the 1800s at Sutro Baths, so Katryn’s wondering if this tunnel really could be from back then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>I’m going to go a little further back and see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But further in, the sides of the tunnel are smooth, a strike against the 1800s theory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>It gets smaller and smaller. I think it only goes 20 or 30 feet back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I also noticed that although the sides of the tunnel are round and smooth, the top is flat, so from the outside, the tunnel opening looks something like a trapezoid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>The top is a little flatter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese:\u003c/strong> I’m noticing that too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>By this time, I’d been in the tunnel for five or six minutes and to be honest, I got a little spooked. I figured the less time in there the better and made my way out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>I’m glad you did it. It needed to be done. Nice one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>After examining the rock formation up close — and taking photos of me inside it — Katryn heads back to her computer. She wants to compare today’s shots with some photographs she’s taken of the same spot on the beach going back several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Later, I hopped on a call to talk about what she’d found.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>The tunnel was not there back in 2021.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>So just four years ago, there was no tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>And it does appear a year ago in ’24. You know, somewhere around ’23, probably year ’22–’23 is when it started to get excavated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That means it’s probably not an old tunnel from the 1800s. And there isn’t a lot of evidence for it being a drainage outlet either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>But then when I saw how smooth the inside was, and of course, how I felt the rock is very, very soft, I realized that, well, the waves have actually been smoothing it out throughout this storm season. And of course if the waves have a hole and they can go in it, they’re gonna just start digging that hole deeper and deeper. That is a typical aspect of coastal erosion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>And in the winter, those waves are especially powerful, reaching all the way up to, and inside of, the tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From a photo she took in January of 2021, Katryn can even see where she thinks the first indentation started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>There’s no tunnel yet, but there’s more rock on the top of it right here. But you can kind of see what looks like a little bit of an indentation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But why is the roof so perfectly flat? The geologist has an explanation for that too. The cliff is composed of different layers of rock. The layer just above the cave is dense, but the ocean has scoured away with the rock below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>So, it’s because it’s excavating this softer layer, which is between two harder layers. And it just so happens that’s not a thin layer, it’s about six or seven feet tall, so you get a large tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The marks at the opening of the tunnel that made Katryn originally think humans might have dug it — those ice cream scoops — likely are the work of curious people. But they probably didn’t dig the whole tunnel, they just widened the mouth. Their digging may have even caused the cave-in we saw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>And it ends up being a natural answer, which is sort of what you would have guessed from the beginning, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I know, I was hoping this cave was some kind of secret rumrunners tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the truth is more surprising in some ways. In a few more years this massive tunnel might no longer exist. As landslides shift the cliffs and strong waves buffet them, this beach is constantly changing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the next time Francisco brings his dog Little Bean to walk here, it could look completely different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If listening to this story really made you want to see what this tunnel looks like for yourself, go check out our website … kqed.org/bay curious. We’ll put a link in our show notes too. We’ve got photos of what the tunnel looked like when Francisco saw it AND ones from after the cave in, when I was there. Honestly, it’s pretty cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Francisco for asking this week’s question. It actually won a Bay Curious voting round. And we’ve got three new questions up on our website now, ready for you to go vote. Here are your options:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 1: \u003c/strong>The Nimitz House — an abandoned, but still-stunning 6,000 square foot mansion located literally under the Bay Bridge on Yerba Buena — is something even long-time San Francisco residents know nothing about. What’s the story of the mansion?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 2:\u003c/strong> What were the navigational trees in Oakland and how did they help sailors avoid Blossom Rock in the bay? And also, what’s the story of Blossom Rock being blown up?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 3:\u003c/strong> What the story with the “art” (read: eyesore) installation just west of the Ferry Building in San Francisco? It’s the large concrete structure with flowing, moldy mildew water (on Google maps it’s called the Vaillancourt Fountain).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Head over to kqed dot org slash bay curious to cast your vote. And, while you’re there, scroll down a little ways and sign up for our newsletter. We only send it once and month and in it we answer even more of your questions!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Conner, Vicky Chung, Mark Jones, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The beach just south of Fort Funston looks like many in Northern California: a wide swath of sand stretches to the surf on one side, while on the other, steep sandy bluffs with succulents rise above. But walking along \u003ca href=\"https://www.californiabeaches.com/beach/phillip-burton-memorial-beach/\">Phillip Burton Memorial Beach\u003c/a>, sandwiched between Fort Funston and Thornton Beach access points, walkers may notice something unusual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a tunnel coming out of the hillside in the middle of the beach, kind of not close to anything,” said Francisco Alvarado.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alvarado spotted this mysterious tunnel one day while walking his chihuahua, Little Bean, on the beach. The opening is etched into the cliff, with its floor at about head height. When Alvarado climbed up to look inside, he realized the tunnel was big, about three feet across. The roof was smooth and flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just a very mysterious tunnel and I want to know what it was used for,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Near the tunnel, old wood pilings jut out of the ocean. They look like the remnants of a pier, so Alvarado wondered if this tunnel could be from an old train line. Or, maybe it’s got something to do with drainage?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Finding the tunnel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To get to the bottom of this tunnel mystery, I enlist Katryn Wiese, a professor of geology, oceanography and paleontology at College of San Mateo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She’s very familiar with this beach and regularly brings her students here on field trips.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Basically this whole section of the coastline is very soft rock and it slides all the time,” says Wiese, in reference to \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/down-to-the-sea-again/\">the section of beach between San Francisco and Pacifica\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She says most people are unaware of the landslide risk, and don’t know that beaches like this can change with the seasons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041385\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041385\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/20250228_TUNNEL_DMB_0090-KQED-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Philip Burton Memorial Beach in San Francisco, on Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(David Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“So the sand piles up in the summer, and then throughout the winter, the heavier waves start excavating it,” pulling the sand back out to the ocean and uncovering rocks hidden below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means spring is the best time to see hidden treasures embedded in the rock cliff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s all these beautiful fossil-rich rocks right at the base of the cliff” on the north side of the stairs that take you down to the beach from the main Fort Funston parking lot, she said. “But you only can see them in the spring. Otherwise they’re covered with sand.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you look closely at the bottom of the cliff there, you can see clam fossils dating back almost a million years, Wiese says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I meet Wiese at low tide, the best time to see as much of the rocky cliff as possible and hopefully reveal more clues about what this tunnel might be. We walk south down the beach in search of the mysterious tunnel. In the distance, the wood pilings Alvarado described poke out of the surf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, we see it: a dark, cavernous opening in a part of the cliffside that juts out further than the rest. With our feet in the beach sand, looking up at the cliff, we see several layers of rock. The lowest layer is dark red and provides a slope we can climb up, like a welcome mat at the cliff’s base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032817\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032817\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250320-THORNTONBEACH-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A group of people pass by a tunnel entrance covered in rocks at Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, located between Thornton State Beach and Fort Funston Beach, in San Francisco on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Whenever something sticks out on a coastline, away from everything else, it’s because it’s made of more resistant rock,” Wiese explains. “As the waves come in, they’re going to naturally excavate the softest stuff [and] leave the hardest stuff behind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While all the rock in this region is fairly sandy, some of it is denser because it was compressed over time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She points out three distinct types of rock in front of us. They look like a layer cake, with the tunnel carved into the middle tier.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tunnel’s mouth has partially caved in, so we scramble closer for a better view.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041336\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041336\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL1-KQED-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A large tunnel in the cliffside is visible from Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, just south of Fort Funston. When this photo was taken, on May 5, 2024, the tunnel mouth was unobstructed. Later, a cave-in would partially block the opening. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Francisco Alvarado)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>We see round marks on the sides of the tunnel’s entrance, like someone took a large ice cream scooper to the walls. Wiese says that it looks like the work of a human — she’s seen similar markings at man-made tunnels near Sutro Baths.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But she’s puzzled by how large the tunnel is — not likely the work of locals out for some fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we peer into the tunnel, it’s hard to see where, or if, it stops. So, I climb over the cave-in and slide down a short drop into the tunnel, where the crashing wave sounds from outside are much quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Several feet inside, the walls of the tunnel are round and smooth. I can stand — hunched over — near the mouth, but as I go deeper into the cliffside, the tunnel narrows and I drop to my hands and knees. The tunnel’s end is roughly 30 feet from its start.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041382\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041382\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/IMG_5487-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Curious producer and editor Katrina Schwartz took her microphone into a tunnel on Phillip Burton Memorial Beach to see how far back it goes. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Katryn Wiese)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041409\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041409\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/06/Side-by-side-Downpage-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tunnel on Philip Burton Memorial Beach seen from the beach (right) and up close (left) in San Francisco, on Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The tale of a beach over time\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Wiese immediately had a theory about the tunnel’s origins, but wanted to check it by looking at older photos of the same spot. She clicked through the many she’s taken when she brings her students there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The tunnel was not there back in 2021,” she said. But she does spot it in her 2024 photos, and believes it probably started to form naturally in 2022 or 2023.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I saw how smooth the inside was, and I felt the rock is very, very soft, I realized that the waves have actually been smoothing it out throughout this storm season,” Wiese said. “If the waves have a hole and they can go in it, they’re gonna just start digging that hole deeper and deeper. That is a typical aspect of coastal erosion.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12041337\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12041337\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/THORNTONBEACHTUNNEL2-KQED-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A large tunnel in the cliffside is visible from Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, just south of Fort Funston, May 5, 2024. After this photo was taken, a cave-in made the tunnel less accessible. (Courtesy Francisco Alvarado) \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Francisco Alvarado)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In one photo from January 2021, she pointed out where the first small indentation began. Over several winters, heavy waves battered the same spot in a soft rock layer, gradually excavating it, and creating the startlingly large tunnel I scurried through.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s excavating this softer layer, which is between two harder layers,” Wiese said. “That’s not a thin layer, it’s about 6 or 7 feet tall, so you get a large tunnel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, there were no pirate lairs, no long lost railroad tunnel used to smuggle Prohibition-era booze into San Francisco (I know you were thinking it). But the tunnel’s builder — the ocean — was an equally surprising culprit. It reminds us that the beach is constantly changing. Maybe the next time Alvarado walks Little Bean here, there will be no tunnel at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Francisco Alvarado likes to walk his Chihuahua, Little Bean, on the beach near Fort Funston, right on the border with Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>He is 13 years old. Brown big ears and we’ve been going to the beach his entire life, but he loves it down there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>One day, they strolled along a beach that will look familiar to Northern Californians: dramatic bluffs covered in sand and succulents. But then, Francisco saw something unusual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>It’s a tunnel coming out of the hillside in the middle of the beach, kind of not close to anything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>If you stand on the beach at low tide, with your back to the ocean, he says you’ll see this elevated cave-like thing in the middle of a cliff. Its floor is around head-height. He climbed up to get a better look inside. It was bigger than he thought, maybe 3-feet wide, and it’s roof is smooth and flat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>It’s just a very mysterious tunnel and I want to know what it was used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Since Francisco first saw this tunnel, his curiosity has consumed him. And he’s got some guesses about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado: \u003c/strong>And it has some, like, poles or maybe we used to be a platform on, on the beach. I think the tunnel is like an old train tunnel or something from way back in the day. My sister who was with me that day, she thinks it’s an old like a storm drain runoff or something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>So we’ve got some theories. Today on Bay Curious we’ll visit Phillip Burton Memorial Beach, as it’s technically called, to see if we can find clues that tell us more about this mysterious tunnel. I’m Katrina Schwartz, you’re listening to Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Today we’re on a mission to find out more about a large tunnel carved into a cliff on the beach between Fort Funston and Thornton Beach. \u003cem>(Sounds of the beach) \u003c/em>To find some answers, I meet up with Katryn Wiese, a geology professor at College of San Mateo. We start at the large Fort Funston parking lot and pick our way down what looks to me like a huge sandy cliff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>We’re walking down the massive landslide that is Fort Funston. So this, up at the top there, was the original surface of this cliff, and this whole area we’re walking down here was a big landslide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>There are logs hammered into the slope — almost like a ladder — to help hikers navigate the sliding sand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Basically this whole section of the coastline is very soft rock and it slides all the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn tells me this beach can change dramatically depending on the season.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese:\u003c/strong> So the sand piles up in the summer, and then throughout the winter, the heavier waves start excavating it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That means there are hidden treasures here that can only be seen at certain times of the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Back where we first came in at Fort Funston, there’s all these beautiful fossil-rich rocks right at the base of the cliff. But you only can see them in the spring. otherwise they’re covered with sand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Look closely at the bottom of the cliff and you can see clam fossils dating back almost a million years, Katryn says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today, we’re on the hunt for a tunnel, not fossils. Neither Katryn nor I have seen this tunnel yet, so as we amble south down the beach we keep our eyes peeled for what Francisco described.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape):\u003c/strong> I wonder if this is it coming up\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>Let’s take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It’s definitely the right place. Francisco told us to look for two things: wood pilings sticking out of the nearby surf, and a cliff that juts farther into the Pacific than surrounding bluffs. Katryn and I walk over to get a closer look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>When you touch it, what do you feel?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>It’s pretty hard and it’s definitely very rough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>What grain size would you associate with that?\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Feels like sand to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>It’s very sandy, isn’t it? Yeah, so this is a sandstone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Little sand particles brush off when we rub the stone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>So whenever something sticks out on a coastline, away from everything else, it’s because it’s made of more resistant rock. So as the waves come in, they’re going to naturally excavate the softest stuff, leave the hardest stuff behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn says with soft rock like this, any little divet in the surface of the bluff can quickly become larger as the waves crash against it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>When the waves come in they’re going hit that same indentation. It’s going to funnel the water into that indentation. And it’s just going to get deeper and deeper and deeper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Looking up the cliff, we spot it! The mouth of the tunnel is barely visible about eight feet off the sand where we stand. When Francisco first saw it, the opening was much more obvious, but since then it looks like the mouth of the tunnel has collapsed, partially blocking the entrance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>I’m going to go up and take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>We climb up a rocky shelf that gets us close enough to peer in, over the sandy rubble. It really is big — large enough for me to stand up hunched over. And it’s deep. We debate whether it’s safe to go inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Well, and it certainly goes back, I mean, 12, 15 feet, from what we can even see. So, like, if you were 15 feet back and then it caved in, that would be really bad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>It’s so tempting, though. And it’s not so much that I’m worried about the tunnel caving in. I’m worried about the collapse of the entrance. So this collapsed, we don’t know when, but it was recent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Katryn admits to being let’s say \u003cem>wary\u003c/em> of confined spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>You need to get someone who’s braver than me, because I don’t want to go back in there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But the allure of solving this mystery is just too much for me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>I’m going into this tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I hand Katryn my backpack and clutch my recorder as I climb over the cave-in and slide down several feet of sand into near darkness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>Ok, so I’m down in here. You can hear it’s a lot quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It looks like someone has used a big ice cream scoop on the side of the tunnel near the entrance. The marks look similar to ones in a tunnel from the 1800s at Sutro Baths, so Katryn’s wondering if this tunnel really could be from back then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>I’m going to go a little further back and see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But further in, the sides of the tunnel are smooth, a strike against the 1800s theory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>It gets smaller and smaller. I think it only goes 20 or 30 feet back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I also noticed that although the sides of the tunnel are round and smooth, the top is flat, so from the outside, the tunnel opening looks something like a trapezoid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (in tape): \u003c/strong>The top is a little flatter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese:\u003c/strong> I’m noticing that too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>By this time, I’d been in the tunnel for five or six minutes and to be honest, I got a little spooked. I figured the less time in there the better and made my way out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>I’m glad you did it. It needed to be done. Nice one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>After examining the rock formation up close — and taking photos of me inside it — Katryn heads back to her computer. She wants to compare today’s shots with some photographs she’s taken of the same spot on the beach going back several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Later, I hopped on a call to talk about what she’d found.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>The tunnel was not there back in 2021.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>So just four years ago, there was no tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>And it does appear a year ago in ’24. You know, somewhere around ’23, probably year ’22–’23 is when it started to get excavated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That means it’s probably not an old tunnel from the 1800s. And there isn’t a lot of evidence for it being a drainage outlet either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>But then when I saw how smooth the inside was, and of course, how I felt the rock is very, very soft, I realized that, well, the waves have actually been smoothing it out throughout this storm season. And of course if the waves have a hole and they can go in it, they’re gonna just start digging that hole deeper and deeper. That is a typical aspect of coastal erosion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>And in the winter, those waves are especially powerful, reaching all the way up to, and inside of, the tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From a photo she took in January of 2021, Katryn can even see where she thinks the first indentation started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>There’s no tunnel yet, but there’s more rock on the top of it right here. But you can kind of see what looks like a little bit of an indentation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>But why is the roof so perfectly flat? The geologist has an explanation for that too. The cliff is composed of different layers of rock. The layer just above the cave is dense, but the ocean has scoured away with the rock below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>So, it’s because it’s excavating this softer layer, which is between two harder layers. And it just so happens that’s not a thin layer, it’s about six or seven feet tall, so you get a large tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The marks at the opening of the tunnel that made Katryn originally think humans might have dug it — those ice cream scoops — likely are the work of curious people. But they probably didn’t dig the whole tunnel, they just widened the mouth. Their digging may have even caused the cave-in we saw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katryn Wiese: \u003c/strong>And it ends up being a natural answer, which is sort of what you would have guessed from the beginning, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>I know, I was hoping this cave was some kind of secret rumrunners tunnel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the truth is more surprising in some ways. In a few more years this massive tunnel might no longer exist. As landslides shift the cliffs and strong waves buffet them, this beach is constantly changing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the next time Francisco brings his dog Little Bean to walk here, it could look completely different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If listening to this story really made you want to see what this tunnel looks like for yourself, go check out our website … kqed.org/bay curious. We’ll put a link in our show notes too. We’ve got photos of what the tunnel looked like when Francisco saw it AND ones from after the cave in, when I was there. Honestly, it’s pretty cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Francisco for asking this week’s question. It actually won a Bay Curious voting round. And we’ve got three new questions up on our website now, ready for you to go vote. Here are your options:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 1: \u003c/strong>The Nimitz House — an abandoned, but still-stunning 6,000 square foot mansion located literally under the Bay Bridge on Yerba Buena — is something even long-time San Francisco residents know nothing about. What’s the story of the mansion?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 2:\u003c/strong> What were the navigational trees in Oakland and how did they help sailors avoid Blossom Rock in the bay? And also, what’s the story of Blossom Rock being blown up?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Question 3:\u003c/strong> What the story with the “art” (read: eyesore) installation just west of the Ferry Building in San Francisco? It’s the large concrete structure with flowing, moldy mildew water (on Google maps it’s called the Vaillancourt Fountain).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Head over to kqed dot org slash bay curious to cast your vote. And, while you’re there, scroll down a little ways and sign up for our newsletter. We only send it once and month and in it we answer even more of your questions!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Francisco Alvarado:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Conner, Vicky Chung, Mark Jones, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "how-bacon-wrapped-hot-dogs-became-one-of-the-bay-areas-most-popular-street-foods",
"title": "How Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dogs Became One of the Bay Area’s Most Popular Street Foods",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every arrival and departure of an Alcatraz ferry brings a flurry of activity to San Francisco’s Pier 33. As tourists shuffle in and out of the busy terminal, bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors are there, drumming up customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The air is perfumed with the intoxicating smell of onions, peppers and bacon-wrapped hot dogs sizzling on makeshift cooktops. A normal day brings around a dozen vendors who click their tongs and yell “hot dog, hot dog, hot dog!” as they try to make a buck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a scene. But the Embarcadero isn’t the only place you can find a bacon-wrapped hot dog in the Bay Area these days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The hot dog people are everywhere,” Bay Curious listener Olivia Godfrey said. “You see them every time you leave a venue, anytime you’re walking around the city.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Godfrey works as an usher at Bay Area music venues like the Fox Theater and Bill Graham Auditorium, and it’s at those places that she began to suspect that the number of people selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs has grown in recent years. That got her wondering:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“How much money do they make every year? What’s the history of them? How do they organize?” Godfrey asked, “I’d love to know how they came to be and how they’ve become such a Bay Area staple.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This simple street food has a complicated legacy. The history crosses international borders, and there’s a fierce controversy around how these vendors work in the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037931\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037931\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk past The Dog House, a hot dog stand, in Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Where do bacon-wrapped hot dogs come from?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Just south of the Arizona border in the Mexican State of Sonora, there is an especially famous type of hot dog. It’s known as a Sonoran dog, or a \u003cem>dogo, \u003c/em>as the locals call it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s really important to them that the hot dogs are a big meal with all these flavors,” said Bill Esparza, a food writer and a \u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/authors/bill-esparza\">senior contributor at Eater LA.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s got a big wheat bun, like a lobster roll. But what really makes it stand out are the condiments people put on top, such as canned mushrooms, pickled jalapenos, and liquid cheese, to name a few, according to Esparza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The arrival of the hot dog in Sonora can be traced back to one person. \u003ca href=\"https://oem.com.mx/elsoldehermosillo/tendencias/como-llegaron-los-dogos-a-hermosillo-te-contamos-la-historia-19055503\">A Sonoran man named Don Cipriano Lucero\u003c/a>, who had worked in the United States and brought hot dogs back to the city of Hermosillo. He opened a restaurant there in 1947 called Cafe KiKi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040596\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040596\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"683\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Sonoran Hot Dog — or ‘dogo’ — photographed in Washington, D.C., on June 24, 2024. \u003ccite>(Scott Suchman with food styling by Lisa Cherkasky for The Washington Post via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Don Cipriano served regular hot dogs, American style. But while Americans might be content with just a little mustard or ketchup, Esparza said the locals probably found it a little boring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mexicans want spice, and also Mexicans very much like sweet,” Esparza said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So they started tinkering, perfecting the hot dog for their taste buds by adding spice, and flavor, and richness. There’s a Spanish word for this process — \u003cem>tropicalizado\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When the bacon came on, who knows, but it started to become a thing in the colleges, probably starting in the sixties,” Esparza said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as hot dogs were brought from the United States to Mexico, it was only a matter of time before \u003cem>dogos \u003c/em>made it back to the United States, shedding the wheat bun and all the extra toppings for the pared-down version on Bay Area streets today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037929\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037929\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vendors sell bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A day on the wharf\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>And these dogs are popular. A vendor named Exania works a cart outside Pier 33 in San Francisco. She asked KQED not to share her full name due to fears about her immigration status.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I work so that my children can continue studying, and to help my mother,” Exania said in Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said she left her home and family in Nicaragua in 2021 and made an asylum claim upon getting to the U.S. She’s been selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Pier 33 for the past three years. Much of her earnings go to paying back the $14,000 debt she took on in order to pay for her journey here. She owes, not a bank, but a person that money. And she said she had to put up her mother’s house as collateral for the loan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s why you will see me here every day, no matter if it’s sunny, rainy, or cold,” Exania said. “If I don’t pay my debt, my family will end up in the street.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If she doesn’t pay every month, the person who loaned her the money threatens to take her mom’s house. There’s a running tab of how much she owes on a WhatsApp thread with the collector. She still owes about $12,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s very painful, but it’s reality,” Exania said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040575\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040575\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a vendor at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A friend sold her a cart for cheap and showed her the ropes, she said. She insisted she works for herself and said she feels good selling at Pier 33. She owns three hot dog carts and sometimes loans them to people who need work. They split the earnings 50–50. She also drives a van to move them all around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sales can be fickle. In winter, it’s slow, so she might only sell one or two hot dogs in a day, barely enough to cover parking and supplies. On a good day, she could sell more than 20, which would get her over $200. She buys her ingredients at stores like Restaurant Depot and Chef’s Stores, where she can buy 50 hot dogs for less than a dollar a piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Tension on the Embarcadero\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the area where Exania works, merchants of all kinds compete with each other for tourists’ attention and money. Some said the bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors unfairly take business from them.[aside postID=news_12004487 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/IMG_2406_qed-1020x680.jpg']Erik has been driving a pedicab for eight years and said Pier 33 used to be one of the best places for pedicabbers to make money. But, around 2021, as the COVID-19 pandemic started to ease, he said bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors started showing up in large numbers outside the terminal. He declined to give his full name due to fear of repercussion if he spoke out against the hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Part of the challenge of our job is to engage people so they’ll get in the bike with us,” Erik explained. “And if the vendors are yelling ‘hot dog, hot dog, hot dog,’ so loud that people can’t hear us, then we get drowned out. We get moved to the back row.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik said it’s unfair that many, if not all, bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors don’t carry any kind of license with the city, when pedicabbers and other businesses on the wharf have to carry permits and pass inspections. He claimed that if people buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog, they don’t patronize restaurants, and they’re less likely to hire a pedicab to take them to a place to eat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That not only hurts us, the pedicabbers, but that hurts all the restaurants at Pier 39 and North Beach,” Erik said. “So find a way to do it in a legal and healthy, safe way. I’m all in, but that’s not what we have today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040599\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040599\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vendors sell bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The rise of street vending — and crackdowns\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Since 2022, San Francisco has been conducting regular inspections of unpermitted street vending seven days a week, including food vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The main issues are foodborne illness, and that is what we are really concerned about,” said Dr. Susan Philip, the director of the population health division at the San Francisco Department of Public Health (SFDPH).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040608\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12040608 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-800x1067.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1067\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1536x2048.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-scaled.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A San Francisco city worker confiscated a hot dog vendor’s cart. \u003ccite>(Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Philip said the inspections are to make sure that food vendors comply with state health laws, like having adequate refrigeration and handwashing, which she said many bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors lack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Philip said that when SFDPH workers do unpermitted vending inspections, they lead with education and information about how to come into compliance with the health code. However, if vendors continue to sell in an unsafe manner, city workers can confiscate their food and equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“ Because we want to decrease the chance that it will end up being sold to someone who could potentially get sick,” Philip said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From July 1, 2023, to Dec. 19, 2024, Philip said SFDPH had carried out enforcement action against 239 vendors in which the city impounded unsafe food or unsafe equipment. The department does not keep track of how many of those actions are related specifically to bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city has seen a rise in street vending of all kinds in recent years, not just bacon-wrapped hot dogs, partly because of the passage of two statewide bills. \u003ca href=\"https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billNavClient.xhtml?bill_id=201720180SB946\">Senate Bill 946\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, broadly decriminalized street vending throughout the state. And \u003ca href=\"https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=202120220SB972\">SB 972,\u003c/a> which went into effect in 2023, reduced enforcement of sidewalk food vending from a criminal offense to one that can only incur administrative citations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So that timeline is consistent with some of the increase that we’re seeing,” Philip said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040603\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040603\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A customer holds a bacon-wrapped hot dog from a vendor at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The only option\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the inspectors confiscate a vendor’s cart, they take it to the San Francisco Port property, where it’s held for 30 days. Vendors are allowed to recover their carts, but SFDPH can issue hefty fines — almost $3,000, in some cases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania said that when her cart gets confiscated, she just buys a new one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even if we pay the fine, they would just come back and fine us again, only that time the fine would be more expensive,” Exania said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the day, this is her only option for work. She said everywhere else she has tried, they want proof of residency, something she can’t provide. So she keeps working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: You smell them before you see them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: The scent is almost heavenly and they’ve become a Bay Area staple outside of sporting events, concerts, and late night bars. We’re talking of course about the bacon-wrapped hot dog. Chances are, if you live in the Bay Area, you’ve seen people selling this iconic street food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: It’s like an ice cream cart, but for hot dogs with just like their griddle on top and they always just have a stock of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, like ready to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: That’s Olivia Godfrey. She grew up in Alameda, now lives in Oakland, and works as an usher at local venues like the Fox and the Greek Theatre. It’s in those places that she started to notice just how abundant these vendors are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: The hot dog people are everywhere. You see them every time you leave a venue, anytime you’re walking around the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: She felt like their numbers had grown in recent years, and that got her wondering.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: How much money do they make every year? Kind of like, what’s the history of them? How do they organize? I’d love to know how they like kind of came to be and like how they’ve become such a Bay Area staple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: I’m Katrina Schwartz, and today on Bay Curious, bacon-wrapped hot dogs! The roots of this culinary tradition, who sells them, what it’s like to do this work, and why some city governments are trying to stop them. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: These days, it seems like bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors are anywhere there’s a crowd, concerts, sports games, touristy areas. It’s not uncommon to see dozens of people selling them from identical carts. For some, the relatively cheap, easy salty delicious snack is just what they’re craving. Others see issues with the fact that many of these vendors are unpermitted. KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman looked into the controversy surrounding this porky problem, and how bacon-wrapped hot dogs became such a part of Bay Area street food culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hot dog, amigo hot dog!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s 11 a.m. on a Saturday and Exania just got her first customers of the day. Her hot dog cart is one of about a dozen, parked outside the Alcatraz Ferry Terminal on San Francisco’s Embarcadero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Ketchup, mustard, mayo?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Umm, I’m not going to do any of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Only onions?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Uhhh, yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Nick and Cameron Nelson just got off the Alcatraz Ferry and they’re hungry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Oh, look at that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Even my mouth starts to water as we watch the onions, peppers, and bacon-wrapped hot dogs heat up over a propane flame. Exania skillfully assembles the greasy delicious mess onto a bun and hands it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Do you take cards?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: For $10 a pop. Nick and Cameron walk away with a quick bite to eat. Nick is stoked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nick Nelson: I mean, all the onions on them are cool. I didn’t put all, like, the mayonnaise and ketchup on that, but I just, you know, who doesn’t like a bacon-wrapped hot dog? I feel like that’s, that’s really good, so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Cameron, the dad, also appreciates a cheap meal in an expensive city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cameron Nelson: Yeah, going out to restaurants, this is sitting down, you’re looking at $80, can just keep walking and keep doing what we’re doing for $20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: They amble off towards Pier 39. But Exania’s got work to do. We’re only using her first name due to fears about her immigration status.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Tengo tres años de vender acá y pues me siento bien.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says she has been selling at this exact spot for the past three years. Basically the whole time she has been in the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Cuando nosotros entramos acá por migración, nosotros pedimos asilo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says she left her home in Nicaragua in 2021, and made an asylum claim upon getting to the U.S. She says she was frightened to make the journey, but a lack of work and the political situation there left her few options.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Tenemos miedo, porque tú sabes cuántas cosas uno pasa para venir a este país.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She’s working to send money to her mother and three children back home in Nicaragua. But she says she’s also paying back the debt to the people who helped bring her here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Aqui nosotros venimos endeudada. Con una deuda que dejamos en nuestro país y es una deuda que tenemos que pagarla, sino que quedamos en la calle. Mi familia quedaría en la calle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: To pay for the trip, she says she took out a $14,000 loan. According to Exania, this loan wasn’t from a bank, but from a person. To get the loan, she had to use her mother’s house as collateral. If she doesn’t pay every month, the person who loaned her the money threatens to take her mom’s house. She showed me a WhatsApp thread where they keep a running tab. She still owes about $12,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Es algo muy, muy penoso, pero es la realidad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says when she first got to the U.S., the people who brought her here supposedly had a job for her. But she says she was treated badly, working long hours selling things like jewelry and ponchos on the street and making just $600 a month.\u003cbr>\nExania: Bajo lluvia, bajo sol, con hambre, con frío que tuve trabajando y en la temporada que yo le estuve trabajando a ella y yo me enfermé muchísimo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She started selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs, she says, when a friend told her she was being exploited, and that she should start her own business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Y me dice no le sigas ayudando a ella. Te está explotando. Ella está viviendo de ti. No sé. Y entonces, pues ya fue cuando él me animó a meterme a este negocio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says a friend sold her a cart for cheap, showed her the ropes, and she got started selling hot dogs. Exania says now she works for herself, she owns three hot dog carts and sometimes loans them to people who need work. They split the earnings 50,50. She also drives a van to move them all around.\u003cbr>\nShe says she feels good working at Pier 33, but sales can be fickle. In winter, it’s slow, she might only sell one or two hot dogs in a day, barely enough to cover parking and supplies. On a good day, she could sell more than 20, which would get her over $200 in a day. She buys her ingredients at stores like Restaurant Depot and chef stores, where she can buy 50 hot dogs for less than a dollar a piece.\u003cbr>\nThe area around the Embarcadero where Exania works is kind of like one big tourist attraction. Businesses of all kinds compete with each other. Of course there’s restaurants and museums, but there are also people who work outside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Street Entertainer: Everybody’s say, woo. Everybody’s say, wow. Ladies and gentlemen….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And pedicabbers who earn their living by giving people bike rides up and down the wharf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Rides up to the sourdough, the sea lions, the chowder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And I quickly learned, there’s tension between the pedicabbers and the hot dog vendors. As I’m interviewing Exania, one pedicab driver approaches me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: Are you going to go and interview legitimate businesses who pay taxes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Am I going to?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: Yeah, I would hope you do. I’d hope you go to the restaurants that have been closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: The atmosphere becomes pretty tense. He asks me if I am going to interview legitimate businesses who pay taxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: These guys cost me about $5,000 a year. How do they, how do they? Because when they buy a hot dog, they don’t go to the wharf. Okay? Yeah, I pay taxes. I pay for a license. We pay permits. F*** these people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s a pretty open display of hostility. I can tell there is some bad blood. But I wanted to find out why so I asked another pedicab driver. He offered to fill me in, but suggested we go somewhere quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We’re going for a pedicab ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Where better to talk, than the back seat of a pedicab?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: I had a passenger once describe it as, uh, it’s like riding a couch down the sidewalk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: This is Erik. He told me he’s been a pedicabber for eight years. He declined to give his last name because of fear of repercussions to his business if he spoke out against the hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: They’re playing their music loud. They’re making a lot of noise soliciting the selling of hot dogs. Um, and they’ve crowded out the prime spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: You might be thinking how would the pedicab business be affected by bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors? Well, Erik says many of his best customers are hungry tourists headed to eat out. Pier 33 used to be his number one place to pick people up and make some money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We’re not just bike riders, we’re tour guides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But around 2021, as the COVID-19 pandemic started to ease, he says bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors started showing up in large numbers outside the terminal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Part of our job, part of our challenge is to engage people. So they’ll get in the bike with us. And, um, if they’re playing their music really loud, so they can’t hear us or if they’re yelling hot dog, hot dog, hot dog, so loud that they can’t hear us, then yeah, we, we get drowned out. We get, uh, moved to the back row.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Instead of getting a ride to lunch at a restaurant with a pedicabber, he says people at the ferry terminal started choosing to buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog instead, and just keep walking. Much like Nick and Cameron Nelson did at the beginning of this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: And that not only hurts us, the pedicabbers, but that hurts all the restaurants at Pier 39, all the restaurants down here, all the restaurants up at North Beach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik says it’s unfair that many, if not all bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors don’t carry any kind of license with the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We all have permits, the bikes have permits, we’re doing everything by regulation and they’re not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik pays a yearly fee of $347 for a pedicab operator’s license. And his employer likely spends more. Other brick and mortar shops on the wharf have to pass health inspections and pay for building permits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: So there’s a lot of local businesses that are paying the price for those people to be out there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik says he supports the hot dog vendors’ right to make a living and hustle on the wharf just like he does. But he says it has to be fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: So find a way to do it right and legal and in a healthy, safe way. I’m all in, but that’s not what we have today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: We take a ride back to Pier 33.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Rickshaw rides, rides up to where you should be having lunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik points out that the sidewalk outside the Ferry Terminal is covered in grease splatters from all the hot dog carts. He raises another complaint commonly leveled against the hot dog vendors. Many don’t have adequate handwashing and refrigeration, and that’s a violation of food safety laws. Just then, something illustrates his point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Oh, look, look, look. See what happened over there. That knife hit the ground. It’s on that greasy sidewalk and wipe it with a napkin and let’s cut some more tomatoes or onions or whatever. That’s, it’s a health issue. Nobody, nobody at the city is doing anything about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik clearly isn’t satisfied with how the city is responding, but since 2022, the city has been conducting regular inspections of unpermitted street vending seven days a week, including food vendors. That work is done by a multi-agency task force, which includes the San Francisco Department of Public Health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: The main issues are, are foodborne, foodborne illness, and that that is what we are really concerned about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Dr. Susan Philip is the director of the population health division at the San Francisco Department of Public Health. She says the main purpose of these inspections is to make sure that food vendors are in compliance with state health laws. Things like having adequate refrigeration and handwashing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: Which many of the carts do not have those capabilities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I’ve seen pictures on social showing hot dogs for sale kept in moldy cardboard boxes below the carts. Dr. Philip says when DPH workers do unpermitted vending inspections, they lead with education and information about how to come into compliance with the health code. But if vendors are not willing to do that, city workers can confiscate their food and equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: Because we want to decrease the chance that It will end up being sold to someone who could potentially get sick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says in a roughly year and a half period, 239 vendors had an enforcement action carried out against them, where the city impounded unsafe food or unsafe equipment. The department does not keep track of how many of those actions related specifically to bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors. Dr. Philip said these inspections aren’t just about food safety, city teams also look out for people selling stolen goods, or people blocking the public right of way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: That is why this task force came about. And it really also is because of this, uh, increase, increase in overall vending that has been occurring in the city, um, as you know, the result of some of the, the changes in the state law.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Senate Bill 946, passed in 2018, broadly decriminalized street vending throughout the state. And SB 972 which went into effect in 2023, reduced enforcement of sidewalk food vending from a criminal offense to one that can only incur administrative citations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: So that timeline is, is consistent with some of the increase that we’re, that we are seeing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: So our question asker Olivia, is right: there has been an increase in street vending over the past few years. She also wanted to know where these hot dogs came from and while you might think of a hot dog as the classic all American food, to understand the origins of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, you have to check out Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: It has been one of my goals as I travel to new Latin American countries all the time is to try their local version of the hot dog and, and I’ve never been disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: This is Bill Esparza, he’s a food writer, senior contributor at Eater LA, and a bit of a hot dog expert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: I went to Brazil and I was having hot dogs there and there’s are also very full of ingredients and wild toppings, you know, they put quail eggs on the hot dogs in Colombia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: He says just south of the Arizona border in the Mexican State of Sonora, there is an especially famous type of hot dog. It’s known as a Sonoran dog, or a Dogo as the locals call it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: It’s like really important to them that, that the hot dogs are just like this. They’re like this big meal with all these flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s got a big wheat bun, think like a lobster roll. But what really makes it stand out are the condiments people put on top. Here are just some them:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: Canned mushrooms, pickled jalapenos , liquid cheese, ruffles potato chips, black olives, sweet corn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: The list goes on. Esparza says as best as we can tell, the arrival of the hot dog in Sonora can be traced back to one person. A Sonoran man named Don Cipriano Lucero, who opened a restaurant called Cafe KiKi in Hermosillo in 1947.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: So Don Cipriano Lucero brought the hot dog back from the United States and, um, started serving them there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Don Cipriano served regular hot dogs, American style. But while Americans might be content with just a little mustard or ketchup, Esparza says the locals probably found it a little boring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: Mexicans want spice and also Mexican very much like sweet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And there’s a Spanish word for what he says people did next. Tropicalizado. It means tropicalized. Over the years people in Sonora perfected the hot dog for their taste buds. They made the American hot dog to be more, well, Mexican. By adding spice, flavor, and richness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: When the bacon came on, who knows, but it started to become a thing in the colleges in, uh, probably starting in the sixties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Just as hot dogs were brought from the United States to Mexico, it was only a matter of time before dogos that had been tropicalizado and made it back to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: So it’s very possible that once hot dogs became popular in Sonora, that somebody came and brought them to Tijuana because those, those people are connected. Those two states are so connected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Once in Tijuana, people traveling from Mexico into California might bring this culinary tradition with them. When it makes this cross-border journey, the dog changes again. Shedding the big wheaty bun and all the extra toppings for a pared down version you can see on Bay Area streets today.\u003cbr>\nBacon-wrapped hot dogs are celebrated in places like Hermosillo, but back at Pier 33, the vendors are constantly on the lookout for city inspection teams.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: ¿Alo? Aquí bajo, no, no, hay aquí venta.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I’m speaking with a bacon-wrapped hot dog vendor named Johanna when she gets a call from another vendor down the street. They exchange information about sales, and also if anyone has seen city inspection teams around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: No amiga, esta más abajo, por que como ayer cayó abajo, entonces nos avisaron que había la cuidad y nos movimos todo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She asked to use her middle name due to fears about her immigration status. Johanna says it varies how often the city inspection teams come, sometimes as many as four times a day, sometimes not at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Ayer cayeron dos veces y anteayer cayeron cuatro veces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: There’s this strange sort of rhythm to the area around where the vendors work. It’s almost tidal. Every 30 minutes or so, a ferry from Alcatraz arrives at the pier, and drops off a boatload of tourists. As they exit the terminal, the pedicabbers and the hot dog vendors hock their wares, rides to the wharf, a quick snack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Algunos barcos son buenos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Johanna says some boats are good, People are hungry. But others, nobody buys anything. Once the tourists leave, a strange quiet settles over the place. Vendors idly click their tongs. People joke with their neighbors, the pedicabbers take a nap in the back of their cab. They wait for the next boat. But city inspection teams can also come at any moment. When that happens it’s chaos.\u003cbr>\nJohanna shows me a video of one enforcement action by the city in March. City staff roll up in vehicles, Johanna and others run away, pushing their carts ahead of them. Johanna got caught, city workers took her cart, and that’s the third time that’s happened in about a year of vending. She says she had a panic attack and city workers called an ambulance for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Llamaron a los bomberos primero, vinieron y me tomaron el pulso y dijeron de que no, que y había entrado, dicen en un pánico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: When the inspectors confiscate a vendor’s cart, they take it to SF Port property where it’s held for 30 days. Vendors can try to get their carts back, but SFDPH can issue hefty fines, almost $3,000 in some cases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Preferimos que se pierda.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Standing next to Johanna is Exania. Exania says when her cart gets confiscated, she just buys a new one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Porque igual compramos otros los quitan. Aunque vayamos a pagar esa multa, vienen de nuevo y los quitan entonces, ¿qué hacemos?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says even if she was to pay the fine and get her cart back, the city would just come and take it again, only this time with a heftier fine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: De todas maneras nos agarran nuestros nombres y en otra nos viene una multa más cara.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She shows me the Amazon listing for these exact carts. It’s a $50 tool cart, but outfitting it with a stove and cooktop and everything else they need brings the price up to around $450. Exania says it can take a while to get the money and supplies together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hay que hacer un proceso primero a juntar dinero para armarlo, porque a veces cuando nos dejan sin nada, imaginate, tenemos que ver por otro lado, para comprar el material\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But at the end of the day, she says this is her only option for work. She says everywhere else she has tried, they want proof of residency. Something she can’t provide. So she keeps working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Es la única manera que tenemos para trabajar. Sí, porque donde quiera que vayamos, nos piden papeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Exania says she’s well aware that she’s working without permits from the city, but says she tries to follow the health code as best she can.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Compramos diarios lo que podemos vender y lo que ya sobra, lo metemos a la hielera, a la refri, para que no se nos dañe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She brings fresh ingredients, the hot dogs are frozen at the start of the day, and she refrigerates what she doesn’t sell. Exania says if she could say one thing to the city, it would be this:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Que nos dejen de maltratar, de seguirnos. Porque aquí nosotros trabajamos decentemente, no le robamos a nadie, no dañamos a nadie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Stop treating us badly. We’re just here to work decently. We’re not robbing anybody, and we’re not hurting anyone.\u003cbr>\nAfter all this, I caught back up with Olivia Godfrey, the question asker. I told her about Exania, and the pedicabbers, and the health department, and the history of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, and everything else. When she asked this question, she came from a place of wanting to know how to support these vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: I think we should be able to support our community around us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But I raised the pedicabbers’ concerns, that many local businesses say they’re hurting because of these vendors. And aren’t they also part of our community?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: How can we support both? Or like, like do you think that like supporting a bacon-wrapped hot dog vendor is to the detriment of other businesses?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Oh man, that’s so tough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I also asked her about the food safety aspect. Knowing that these hot dogs likely weren’t up to the food code, did she feel safe eating them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Oh, no, that’s definitely something that you’re aware of, of like, you might take your chances on like maybe not feeling well afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I know what she means, growing up in San Francisco, my friends and I called them Danger Dogs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Knowing what you know now, do you think that you would still buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Yes, definitely. I kind of sympathize with people like the industry or the other folks in that like Pier 39 area that might be struggling because of this, but where I’m frequenting them is like concert venues and things like that. And I’ll of course support those folks because who doesn’t love a good bacon-wrapped hot dog after a concert?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: There’s some people who definitely don’t love them. But the bacon-wrapped hot dog has undeniably become an iconic Bay Area Street food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: That was KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003cbr>\nThanks for listening. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "You can get them at Pier 39, outside The Fillmore or when leaving Chase Center. However, this popular street food is causing tension with some local businesses and city officials.",
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"title": "How Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dogs Became One of the Bay Area’s Most Popular Street Foods | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every arrival and departure of an Alcatraz ferry brings a flurry of activity to San Francisco’s Pier 33. As tourists shuffle in and out of the busy terminal, bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors are there, drumming up customers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The air is perfumed with the intoxicating smell of onions, peppers and bacon-wrapped hot dogs sizzling on makeshift cooktops. A normal day brings around a dozen vendors who click their tongs and yell “hot dog, hot dog, hot dog!” as they try to make a buck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a scene. But the Embarcadero isn’t the only place you can find a bacon-wrapped hot dog in the Bay Area these days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The hot dog people are everywhere,” Bay Curious listener Olivia Godfrey said. “You see them every time you leave a venue, anytime you’re walking around the city.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Godfrey works as an usher at Bay Area music venues like the Fox Theater and Bill Graham Auditorium, and it’s at those places that she began to suspect that the number of people selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs has grown in recent years. That got her wondering:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“How much money do they make every year? What’s the history of them? How do they organize?” Godfrey asked, “I’d love to know how they came to be and how they’ve become such a Bay Area staple.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This simple street food has a complicated legacy. The history crosses international borders, and there’s a fierce controversy around how these vendors work in the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037931\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037931\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-17-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk past The Dog House, a hot dog stand, in Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Where do bacon-wrapped hot dogs come from?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Just south of the Arizona border in the Mexican State of Sonora, there is an especially famous type of hot dog. It’s known as a Sonoran dog, or a \u003cem>dogo, \u003c/em>as the locals call it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s really important to them that the hot dogs are a big meal with all these flavors,” said Bill Esparza, a food writer and a \u003ca href=\"https://www.eater.com/authors/bill-esparza\">senior contributor at Eater LA.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s got a big wheat bun, like a lobster roll. But what really makes it stand out are the condiments people put on top, such as canned mushrooms, pickled jalapenos, and liquid cheese, to name a few, according to Esparza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The arrival of the hot dog in Sonora can be traced back to one person. \u003ca href=\"https://oem.com.mx/elsoldehermosillo/tendencias/como-llegaron-los-dogos-a-hermosillo-te-contamos-la-historia-19055503\">A Sonoran man named Don Cipriano Lucero\u003c/a>, who had worked in the United States and brought hot dogs back to the city of Hermosillo. He opened a restaurant there in 1947 called Cafe KiKi.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040596\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040596\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"683\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2158959446-160x107.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Sonoran Hot Dog — or ‘dogo’ — photographed in Washington, D.C., on June 24, 2024. \u003ccite>(Scott Suchman with food styling by Lisa Cherkasky for The Washington Post via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Don Cipriano served regular hot dogs, American style. But while Americans might be content with just a little mustard or ketchup, Esparza said the locals probably found it a little boring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mexicans want spice, and also Mexicans very much like sweet,” Esparza said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So they started tinkering, perfecting the hot dog for their taste buds by adding spice, and flavor, and richness. There’s a Spanish word for this process — \u003cem>tropicalizado\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When the bacon came on, who knows, but it started to become a thing in the colleges, probably starting in the sixties,” Esparza said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just as hot dogs were brought from the United States to Mexico, it was only a matter of time before \u003cem>dogos \u003c/em>made it back to the United States, shedding the wheat bun and all the extra toppings for the pared-down version on Bay Area streets today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037929\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037929\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250424-DANGERDOGS-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vendors sell bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A day on the wharf\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>And these dogs are popular. A vendor named Exania works a cart outside Pier 33 in San Francisco. She asked KQED not to share her full name due to fears about her immigration status.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I work so that my children can continue studying, and to help my mother,” Exania said in Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said she left her home and family in Nicaragua in 2021 and made an asylum claim upon getting to the U.S. She’s been selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Pier 33 for the past three years. Much of her earnings go to paying back the $14,000 debt she took on in order to pay for her journey here. She owes, not a bank, but a person that money. And she said she had to put up her mother’s house as collateral for the loan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s why you will see me here every day, no matter if it’s sunny, rainy, or cold,” Exania said. “If I don’t pay my debt, my family will end up in the street.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If she doesn’t pay every month, the person who loaned her the money threatens to take her mom’s house. There’s a running tab of how much she owes on a WhatsApp thread with the collector. She still owes about $12,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s very painful, but it’s reality,” Exania said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040575\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040575\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Side-by-side-Downpage-1-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a vendor at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A friend sold her a cart for cheap and showed her the ropes, she said. She insisted she works for herself and said she feels good selling at Pier 33. She owns three hot dog carts and sometimes loans them to people who need work. They split the earnings 50–50. She also drives a van to move them all around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sales can be fickle. In winter, it’s slow, so she might only sell one or two hot dogs in a day, barely enough to cover parking and supplies. On a good day, she could sell more than 20, which would get her over $200. She buys her ingredients at stores like Restaurant Depot and Chef’s Stores, where she can buy 50 hot dogs for less than a dollar a piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Tension on the Embarcadero\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the area where Exania works, merchants of all kinds compete with each other for tourists’ attention and money. Some said the bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors unfairly take business from them.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Erik has been driving a pedicab for eight years and said Pier 33 used to be one of the best places for pedicabbers to make money. But, around 2021, as the COVID-19 pandemic started to ease, he said bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors started showing up in large numbers outside the terminal. He declined to give his full name due to fear of repercussion if he spoke out against the hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Part of the challenge of our job is to engage people so they’ll get in the bike with us,” Erik explained. “And if the vendors are yelling ‘hot dog, hot dog, hot dog,’ so loud that people can’t hear us, then we get drowned out. We get moved to the back row.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik said it’s unfair that many, if not all, bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors don’t carry any kind of license with the city, when pedicabbers and other businesses on the wharf have to carry permits and pass inspections. He claimed that if people buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog, they don’t patronize restaurants, and they’re less likely to hire a pedicab to take them to a place to eat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That not only hurts us, the pedicabbers, but that hurts all the restaurants at Pier 39 and North Beach,” Erik said. “So find a way to do it in a legal and healthy, safe way. I’m all in, but that’s not what we have today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040599\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040599\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-04-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vendors sell bacon-wrapped hot dogs at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The rise of street vending — and crackdowns\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Since 2022, San Francisco has been conducting regular inspections of unpermitted street vending seven days a week, including food vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The main issues are foodborne illness, and that is what we are really concerned about,” said Dr. Susan Philip, the director of the population health division at the San Francisco Department of Public Health (SFDPH).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040608\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12040608 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-800x1067.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1067\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-1536x2048.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_5828-scaled.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A San Francisco city worker confiscated a hot dog vendor’s cart. \u003ccite>(Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Philip said the inspections are to make sure that food vendors comply with state health laws, like having adequate refrigeration and handwashing, which she said many bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors lack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Philip said that when SFDPH workers do unpermitted vending inspections, they lead with education and information about how to come into compliance with the health code. However, if vendors continue to sell in an unsafe manner, city workers can confiscate their food and equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“ Because we want to decrease the chance that it will end up being sold to someone who could potentially get sick,” Philip said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From July 1, 2023, to Dec. 19, 2024, Philip said SFDPH had carried out enforcement action against 239 vendors in which the city impounded unsafe food or unsafe equipment. The department does not keep track of how many of those actions are related specifically to bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city has seen a rise in street vending of all kinds in recent years, not just bacon-wrapped hot dogs, partly because of the passage of two statewide bills. \u003ca href=\"https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billNavClient.xhtml?bill_id=201720180SB946\">Senate Bill 946\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, broadly decriminalized street vending throughout the state. And \u003ca href=\"https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=202120220SB972\">SB 972,\u003c/a> which went into effect in 2023, reduced enforcement of sidewalk food vending from a criminal offense to one that can only incur administrative citations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So that timeline is consistent with some of the increase that we’re seeing,” Philip said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040603\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040603\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250424-DangerDogs-01-BL_qed-1-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A customer holds a bacon-wrapped hot dog from a vendor at Fisherman’s Wharf on April 24, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The only option\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the inspectors confiscate a vendor’s cart, they take it to the San Francisco Port property, where it’s held for 30 days. Vendors are allowed to recover their carts, but SFDPH can issue hefty fines — almost $3,000, in some cases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania said that when her cart gets confiscated, she just buys a new one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even if we pay the fine, they would just come back and fine us again, only that time the fine would be more expensive,” Exania said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the day, this is her only option for work. She said everywhere else she has tried, they want proof of residency, something she can’t provide. So she keeps working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: You smell them before you see them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: The scent is almost heavenly and they’ve become a Bay Area staple outside of sporting events, concerts, and late night bars. We’re talking of course about the bacon-wrapped hot dog. Chances are, if you live in the Bay Area, you’ve seen people selling this iconic street food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: It’s like an ice cream cart, but for hot dogs with just like their griddle on top and they always just have a stock of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, like ready to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: That’s Olivia Godfrey. She grew up in Alameda, now lives in Oakland, and works as an usher at local venues like the Fox and the Greek Theatre. It’s in those places that she started to notice just how abundant these vendors are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: The hot dog people are everywhere. You see them every time you leave a venue, anytime you’re walking around the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: She felt like their numbers had grown in recent years, and that got her wondering.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: How much money do they make every year? Kind of like, what’s the history of them? How do they organize? I’d love to know how they like kind of came to be and like how they’ve become such a Bay Area staple.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: I’m Katrina Schwartz, and today on Bay Curious, bacon-wrapped hot dogs! The roots of this culinary tradition, who sells them, what it’s like to do this work, and why some city governments are trying to stop them. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: These days, it seems like bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors are anywhere there’s a crowd, concerts, sports games, touristy areas. It’s not uncommon to see dozens of people selling them from identical carts. For some, the relatively cheap, easy salty delicious snack is just what they’re craving. Others see issues with the fact that many of these vendors are unpermitted. KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman looked into the controversy surrounding this porky problem, and how bacon-wrapped hot dogs became such a part of Bay Area street food culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hot dog, amigo hot dog!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s 11 a.m. on a Saturday and Exania just got her first customers of the day. Her hot dog cart is one of about a dozen, parked outside the Alcatraz Ferry Terminal on San Francisco’s Embarcadero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Ketchup, mustard, mayo?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Umm, I’m not going to do any of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Only onions?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Uhhh, yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Nick and Cameron Nelson just got off the Alcatraz Ferry and they’re hungry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Oh, look at that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Even my mouth starts to water as we watch the onions, peppers, and bacon-wrapped hot dogs heat up over a propane flame. Exania skillfully assembles the greasy delicious mess onto a bun and hands it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Customer: Do you take cards?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: For $10 a pop. Nick and Cameron walk away with a quick bite to eat. Nick is stoked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nick Nelson: I mean, all the onions on them are cool. I didn’t put all, like, the mayonnaise and ketchup on that, but I just, you know, who doesn’t like a bacon-wrapped hot dog? I feel like that’s, that’s really good, so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Cameron, the dad, also appreciates a cheap meal in an expensive city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cameron Nelson: Yeah, going out to restaurants, this is sitting down, you’re looking at $80, can just keep walking and keep doing what we’re doing for $20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: They amble off towards Pier 39. But Exania’s got work to do. We’re only using her first name due to fears about her immigration status.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Tengo tres años de vender acá y pues me siento bien.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says she has been selling at this exact spot for the past three years. Basically the whole time she has been in the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Cuando nosotros entramos acá por migración, nosotros pedimos asilo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says she left her home in Nicaragua in 2021, and made an asylum claim upon getting to the U.S. She says she was frightened to make the journey, but a lack of work and the political situation there left her few options.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Tenemos miedo, porque tú sabes cuántas cosas uno pasa para venir a este país.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She’s working to send money to her mother and three children back home in Nicaragua. But she says she’s also paying back the debt to the people who helped bring her here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Aqui nosotros venimos endeudada. Con una deuda que dejamos en nuestro país y es una deuda que tenemos que pagarla, sino que quedamos en la calle. Mi familia quedaría en la calle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: To pay for the trip, she says she took out a $14,000 loan. According to Exania, this loan wasn’t from a bank, but from a person. To get the loan, she had to use her mother’s house as collateral. If she doesn’t pay every month, the person who loaned her the money threatens to take her mom’s house. She showed me a WhatsApp thread where they keep a running tab. She still owes about $12,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Es algo muy, muy penoso, pero es la realidad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says when she first got to the U.S., the people who brought her here supposedly had a job for her. But she says she was treated badly, working long hours selling things like jewelry and ponchos on the street and making just $600 a month.\u003cbr>\nExania: Bajo lluvia, bajo sol, con hambre, con frío que tuve trabajando y en la temporada que yo le estuve trabajando a ella y yo me enfermé muchísimo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She started selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs, she says, when a friend told her she was being exploited, and that she should start her own business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Y me dice no le sigas ayudando a ella. Te está explotando. Ella está viviendo de ti. No sé. Y entonces, pues ya fue cuando él me animó a meterme a este negocio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says a friend sold her a cart for cheap, showed her the ropes, and she got started selling hot dogs. Exania says now she works for herself, she owns three hot dog carts and sometimes loans them to people who need work. They split the earnings 50,50. She also drives a van to move them all around.\u003cbr>\nShe says she feels good working at Pier 33, but sales can be fickle. In winter, it’s slow, she might only sell one or two hot dogs in a day, barely enough to cover parking and supplies. On a good day, she could sell more than 20, which would get her over $200 in a day. She buys her ingredients at stores like Restaurant Depot and chef stores, where she can buy 50 hot dogs for less than a dollar a piece.\u003cbr>\nThe area around the Embarcadero where Exania works is kind of like one big tourist attraction. Businesses of all kinds compete with each other. Of course there’s restaurants and museums, but there are also people who work outside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Street Entertainer: Everybody’s say, woo. Everybody’s say, wow. Ladies and gentlemen….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And pedicabbers who earn their living by giving people bike rides up and down the wharf.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Rides up to the sourdough, the sea lions, the chowder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And I quickly learned, there’s tension between the pedicabbers and the hot dog vendors. As I’m interviewing Exania, one pedicab driver approaches me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: Are you going to go and interview legitimate businesses who pay taxes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Am I going to?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: Yeah, I would hope you do. I’d hope you go to the restaurants that have been closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: The atmosphere becomes pretty tense. He asks me if I am going to interview legitimate businesses who pay taxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pedicab Driver: These guys cost me about $5,000 a year. How do they, how do they? Because when they buy a hot dog, they don’t go to the wharf. Okay? Yeah, I pay taxes. I pay for a license. We pay permits. F*** these people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s a pretty open display of hostility. I can tell there is some bad blood. But I wanted to find out why so I asked another pedicab driver. He offered to fill me in, but suggested we go somewhere quieter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We’re going for a pedicab ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Where better to talk, than the back seat of a pedicab?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: I had a passenger once describe it as, uh, it’s like riding a couch down the sidewalk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: This is Erik. He told me he’s been a pedicabber for eight years. He declined to give his last name because of fear of repercussions to his business if he spoke out against the hot dog vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: They’re playing their music loud. They’re making a lot of noise soliciting the selling of hot dogs. Um, and they’ve crowded out the prime spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: You might be thinking how would the pedicab business be affected by bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors? Well, Erik says many of his best customers are hungry tourists headed to eat out. Pier 33 used to be his number one place to pick people up and make some money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We’re not just bike riders, we’re tour guides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But around 2021, as the COVID-19 pandemic started to ease, he says bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors started showing up in large numbers outside the terminal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Part of our job, part of our challenge is to engage people. So they’ll get in the bike with us. And, um, if they’re playing their music really loud, so they can’t hear us or if they’re yelling hot dog, hot dog, hot dog, so loud that they can’t hear us, then yeah, we, we get drowned out. We get, uh, moved to the back row.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Instead of getting a ride to lunch at a restaurant with a pedicabber, he says people at the ferry terminal started choosing to buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog instead, and just keep walking. Much like Nick and Cameron Nelson did at the beginning of this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: And that not only hurts us, the pedicabbers, but that hurts all the restaurants at Pier 39, all the restaurants down here, all the restaurants up at North Beach.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik says it’s unfair that many, if not all bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors don’t carry any kind of license with the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: We all have permits, the bikes have permits, we’re doing everything by regulation and they’re not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik pays a yearly fee of $347 for a pedicab operator’s license. And his employer likely spends more. Other brick and mortar shops on the wharf have to pass health inspections and pay for building permits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: So there’s a lot of local businesses that are paying the price for those people to be out there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik says he supports the hot dog vendors’ right to make a living and hustle on the wharf just like he does. But he says it has to be fair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: So find a way to do it right and legal and in a healthy, safe way. I’m all in, but that’s not what we have today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: We take a ride back to Pier 33.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Rickshaw rides, rides up to where you should be having lunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik points out that the sidewalk outside the Ferry Terminal is covered in grease splatters from all the hot dog carts. He raises another complaint commonly leveled against the hot dog vendors. Many don’t have adequate handwashing and refrigeration, and that’s a violation of food safety laws. Just then, something illustrates his point.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Erik: Oh, look, look, look. See what happened over there. That knife hit the ground. It’s on that greasy sidewalk and wipe it with a napkin and let’s cut some more tomatoes or onions or whatever. That’s, it’s a health issue. Nobody, nobody at the city is doing anything about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Erik clearly isn’t satisfied with how the city is responding, but since 2022, the city has been conducting regular inspections of unpermitted street vending seven days a week, including food vendors. That work is done by a multi-agency task force, which includes the San Francisco Department of Public Health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: The main issues are, are foodborne, foodborne illness, and that that is what we are really concerned about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Dr. Susan Philip is the director of the population health division at the San Francisco Department of Public Health. She says the main purpose of these inspections is to make sure that food vendors are in compliance with state health laws. Things like having adequate refrigeration and handwashing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: Which many of the carts do not have those capabilities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I’ve seen pictures on social showing hot dogs for sale kept in moldy cardboard boxes below the carts. Dr. Philip says when DPH workers do unpermitted vending inspections, they lead with education and information about how to come into compliance with the health code. But if vendors are not willing to do that, city workers can confiscate their food and equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: Because we want to decrease the chance that It will end up being sold to someone who could potentially get sick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says in a roughly year and a half period, 239 vendors had an enforcement action carried out against them, where the city impounded unsafe food or unsafe equipment. The department does not keep track of how many of those actions related specifically to bacon-wrapped hot dog vendors. Dr. Philip said these inspections aren’t just about food safety, city teams also look out for people selling stolen goods, or people blocking the public right of way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: That is why this task force came about. And it really also is because of this, uh, increase, increase in overall vending that has been occurring in the city, um, as you know, the result of some of the, the changes in the state law.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Senate Bill 946, passed in 2018, broadly decriminalized street vending throughout the state. And SB 972 which went into effect in 2023, reduced enforcement of sidewalk food vending from a criminal offense to one that can only incur administrative citations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dr. Susan Philip: So that timeline is, is consistent with some of the increase that we’re, that we are seeing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: So our question asker Olivia, is right: there has been an increase in street vending over the past few years. She also wanted to know where these hot dogs came from and while you might think of a hot dog as the classic all American food, to understand the origins of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, you have to check out Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: It has been one of my goals as I travel to new Latin American countries all the time is to try their local version of the hot dog and, and I’ve never been disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: This is Bill Esparza, he’s a food writer, senior contributor at Eater LA, and a bit of a hot dog expert.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: I went to Brazil and I was having hot dogs there and there’s are also very full of ingredients and wild toppings, you know, they put quail eggs on the hot dogs in Colombia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: He says just south of the Arizona border in the Mexican State of Sonora, there is an especially famous type of hot dog. It’s known as a Sonoran dog, or a Dogo as the locals call it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: It’s like really important to them that, that the hot dogs are just like this. They’re like this big meal with all these flavors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: It’s got a big wheat bun, think like a lobster roll. But what really makes it stand out are the condiments people put on top. Here are just some them:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: Canned mushrooms, pickled jalapenos , liquid cheese, ruffles potato chips, black olives, sweet corn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: The list goes on. Esparza says as best as we can tell, the arrival of the hot dog in Sonora can be traced back to one person. A Sonoran man named Don Cipriano Lucero, who opened a restaurant called Cafe KiKi in Hermosillo in 1947.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: So Don Cipriano Lucero brought the hot dog back from the United States and, um, started serving them there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Don Cipriano served regular hot dogs, American style. But while Americans might be content with just a little mustard or ketchup, Esparza says the locals probably found it a little boring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: Mexicans want spice and also Mexican very much like sweet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: And there’s a Spanish word for what he says people did next. Tropicalizado. It means tropicalized. Over the years people in Sonora perfected the hot dog for their taste buds. They made the American hot dog to be more, well, Mexican. By adding spice, flavor, and richness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: When the bacon came on, who knows, but it started to become a thing in the colleges in, uh, probably starting in the sixties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Just as hot dogs were brought from the United States to Mexico, it was only a matter of time before dogos that had been tropicalizado and made it back to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bill Esparza: So it’s very possible that once hot dogs became popular in Sonora, that somebody came and brought them to Tijuana because those, those people are connected. Those two states are so connected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Once in Tijuana, people traveling from Mexico into California might bring this culinary tradition with them. When it makes this cross-border journey, the dog changes again. Shedding the big wheaty bun and all the extra toppings for a pared down version you can see on Bay Area streets today.\u003cbr>\nBacon-wrapped hot dogs are celebrated in places like Hermosillo, but back at Pier 33, the vendors are constantly on the lookout for city inspection teams.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: ¿Alo? Aquí bajo, no, no, hay aquí venta.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I’m speaking with a bacon-wrapped hot dog vendor named Johanna when she gets a call from another vendor down the street. They exchange information about sales, and also if anyone has seen city inspection teams around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: No amiga, esta más abajo, por que como ayer cayó abajo, entonces nos avisaron que había la cuidad y nos movimos todo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She asked to use her middle name due to fears about her immigration status. Johanna says it varies how often the city inspection teams come, sometimes as many as four times a day, sometimes not at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Ayer cayeron dos veces y anteayer cayeron cuatro veces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: There’s this strange sort of rhythm to the area around where the vendors work. It’s almost tidal. Every 30 minutes or so, a ferry from Alcatraz arrives at the pier, and drops off a boatload of tourists. As they exit the terminal, the pedicabbers and the hot dog vendors hock their wares, rides to the wharf, a quick snack.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Algunos barcos son buenos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Johanna says some boats are good, People are hungry. But others, nobody buys anything. Once the tourists leave, a strange quiet settles over the place. Vendors idly click their tongs. People joke with their neighbors, the pedicabbers take a nap in the back of their cab. They wait for the next boat. But city inspection teams can also come at any moment. When that happens it’s chaos.\u003cbr>\nJohanna shows me a video of one enforcement action by the city in March. City staff roll up in vehicles, Johanna and others run away, pushing their carts ahead of them. Johanna got caught, city workers took her cart, and that’s the third time that’s happened in about a year of vending. She says she had a panic attack and city workers called an ambulance for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Johanna: Llamaron a los bomberos primero, vinieron y me tomaron el pulso y dijeron de que no, que y había entrado, dicen en un pánico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: When the inspectors confiscate a vendor’s cart, they take it to SF Port property where it’s held for 30 days. Vendors can try to get their carts back, but SFDPH can issue hefty fines, almost $3,000 in some cases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Preferimos que se pierda.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Standing next to Johanna is Exania. Exania says when her cart gets confiscated, she just buys a new one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Porque igual compramos otros los quitan. Aunque vayamos a pagar esa multa, vienen de nuevo y los quitan entonces, ¿qué hacemos?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She says even if she was to pay the fine and get her cart back, the city would just come and take it again, only this time with a heftier fine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: De todas maneras nos agarran nuestros nombres y en otra nos viene una multa más cara.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She shows me the Amazon listing for these exact carts. It’s a $50 tool cart, but outfitting it with a stove and cooktop and everything else they need brings the price up to around $450. Exania says it can take a while to get the money and supplies together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Hay que hacer un proceso primero a juntar dinero para armarlo, porque a veces cuando nos dejan sin nada, imaginate, tenemos que ver por otro lado, para comprar el material\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But at the end of the day, she says this is her only option for work. She says everywhere else she has tried, they want proof of residency. Something she can’t provide. So she keeps working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Es la única manera que tenemos para trabajar. Sí, porque donde quiera que vayamos, nos piden papeles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Exania says she’s well aware that she’s working without permits from the city, but says she tries to follow the health code as best she can.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Compramos diarios lo que podemos vender y lo que ya sobra, lo metemos a la hielera, a la refri, para que no se nos dañe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: She brings fresh ingredients, the hot dogs are frozen at the start of the day, and she refrigerates what she doesn’t sell. Exania says if she could say one thing to the city, it would be this:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Exania: Que nos dejen de maltratar, de seguirnos. Porque aquí nosotros trabajamos decentemente, no le robamos a nadie, no dañamos a nadie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Stop treating us badly. We’re just here to work decently. We’re not robbing anybody, and we’re not hurting anyone.\u003cbr>\nAfter all this, I caught back up with Olivia Godfrey, the question asker. I told her about Exania, and the pedicabbers, and the health department, and the history of bacon-wrapped hot dogs, and everything else. When she asked this question, she came from a place of wanting to know how to support these vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: I think we should be able to support our community around us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: But I raised the pedicabbers’ concerns, that many local businesses say they’re hurting because of these vendors. And aren’t they also part of our community?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: How can we support both? Or like, like do you think that like supporting a bacon-wrapped hot dog vendor is to the detriment of other businesses?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Oh man, that’s so tough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I also asked her about the food safety aspect. Knowing that these hot dogs likely weren’t up to the food code, did she feel safe eating them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Oh, no, that’s definitely something that you’re aware of, of like, you might take your chances on like maybe not feeling well afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: I know what she means, growing up in San Francisco, my friends and I called them Danger Dogs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: Knowing what you know now, do you think that you would still buy a bacon-wrapped hot dog?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Godfrey: Yes, definitely. I kind of sympathize with people like the industry or the other folks in that like Pier 39 area that might be struggling because of this, but where I’m frequenting them is like concert venues and things like that. And I’ll of course support those folks because who doesn’t love a good bacon-wrapped hot dog after a concert?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman: There’s some people who definitely don’t love them. But the bacon-wrapped hot dog has undeniably become an iconic Bay Area Street food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Katrina Schwartz: That was KQED’s Azul Dahlstrom-Eckman. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003cbr>\nThanks for listening. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "how-a-ford-factory-in-milpitas-changed-the-face-of-a-town",
"title": "How a Ford Factory in Milpitas Changed the Face of a Town",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Karl Cortese, the Great Mall of Milpitas is much more than just a mall. He’s come here often over the years, to go shopping with his wife or spend time at the Dave and Buster’s with his grandkids. But each time he visits, he can’t help but remember the place as it used to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Karl’s day, the building was home to a massive Ford factory. Officially known as the San José Assembly Plant, the factory opened its doors in 1955. Karl started working there in 1968 and spent 15 years on the assembly line. For him, the mall’s shipping center offers the best window into the building’s industrial past. “There was that old green color and white letters and … the floor was all concrete,” Karl said. If you peek inside these days, not much has changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040150\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040150\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The green walls at Ford’s San José Assembly Plant are still part of the Great Mall today. \u003ccite>(The Milpitas Beat, courtesy of the Sabin family)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the only other way a visitor might know this building used to manufacture Ford cars is a small — and easy-to-overlook — display case of Ford-era memorabilia. For the most part, mall goers seem unaware of the factory’s history and its importance to the surrounding area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Ford plant put Milpitas on the map, forever changing what had been a sleepy agricultural town into a thriving city. The factory’s opening also sparked historic social change: the creation of one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039976\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Karl Cortese, a former employee at the Ford Motor Company’s San José Assembly Plant, stands outside the Great Mall in Milpitas on April 29, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Moving to Milpitas\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Before Ford opened its Milpitas plant, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/places/ford-motor-company-assembly-plant.htm\">the automaker had already been operating in Richmond for decades\u003c/a>. During World War II, the so-called “Richmond Tank Depot” helped produce jeeps, tanks, and other military vehicles. After the war ended, the American economy began to boom and demand for American cars increased. The outdated Richmond factory struggled to meet demand. Ford needed to expand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1950s California, Milpitas was a great option. The agricultural town offered expansive acreage at an affordable price. According to historian Herbert Ruffin II, Milpitas “was just a place that you drive through [and] you see nothing but cornfields.” Ruffin spent part of his childhood in Milpitas, a town so agriculturally rooted its name literally means “little cornfield.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After staving off annexation from San José, Milpitas was officially incorporated in 1954. According to Herbert, “San José wanted Milpitas real bad, primarily because they wanted … the tax money that came from that [Ford] plant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Ford factory opened in 1955, just a year later, it called Milpitas home.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Working at the San José Assembly Plant\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>David McFeely grew up in Milpitas, with the Ford factory in the background. “On a clear summer night, when sound really carries, you could hear the switch engines moving all the freight cars in and out of the Ford plant,” McFeely said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For a high school graduate on the job hunt, Ford was a great option. It offered some of the highest pay in the Santa Clara Valley. McFeely’s plan was to stay short-term and save up money to go to college. So, he joined the factory’s part-time replacement program. When he finally got the chance to peek behind the curtain, he was in awe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I mean for a technical mind, it was like being a kid in a candy store,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039982\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039982\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1545\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-800x618.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1020x788.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1536x1187.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1920x1483.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicle frames on the assembly line at the San José Assembly Plant, 1974. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Ford Motor Company)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Milpitas operation was responsible for making some iconic Ford models — the Mustang, F-series pickups, Pintos, and Falcons. The 1.4 million square-foot factory served as Ford’s West Coast production outpost. At its peak, the plant employed nearly 6,000 workers and operated at a rate of 55 cars and 22 trucks per hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“God knows how they were able to do this,” McFeely said. “But the logistical coordination was fascinating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The expansive factory was a network of assembly lines. There was the paint department, the trim department, the chassis department, the repair hole, just to name a few. Workers were assigned a station and task to repeat ad nauseam. Former Ford worker John Wilcoxson said that “[the work] could get boring at times, but … you kind of had to make your own fun.” He remembered causing a stir when he smuggled headphones into the factory to provide a soundtrack to the monotonous, repetitive work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just sort of some nice background noise, instead of the constant clash of metal and things going on around me,” Wilcoxson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039981\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039981\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1545\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-800x618.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1020x788.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1536x1187.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1920x1483.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An inside look at the San José Assembly Plant, 1974. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Ford Motor Company)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Former workers remember a strong community around the plant. There was a company softball team where different departments competed against one another and during the holiday season, workers barbecued on the blacksmith’s forge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many workers lived in a nearby neighborhood called Sunnyhills, which Ford’s local union built to accommodate an influx of workers to Milpitas. There was even a Ford Union Hall in the development. But the most remarkable thing about the neighborhood was its diversity. In 1956, when it opened, Sunnyhills was one of the first planned integrated neighborhoods in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Story of Sunnyhills\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5QKBKrNKGo\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Ford shut down its Richmond plant to relocate to Milpitas, many workers opted to continue at the new location. But Milpitas lacked housing, particularly for African American workers who were barred from buying or renting homes in the surrounding towns. Historian Herbert Ruffin II says many of these workers first tried commuting from Richmond by car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There [was] no BART, there [was] no Caltrain, there [was] none of that,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it was a long commute, over 40 miles. Ford’s union leaders were determined to find a solution to this housing problem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Leading the charge was\u003ca href=\"https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/ben-gross-1921/\"> an African American worker by the name of Ben Gross\u003c/a>. Gross was born and raised in Arkansas, lived under Jim Crow laws, and picked cotton during the Great Depression. After leaving the army, he joined Ford and quickly became an active union member. In 1950, he was the first African American elected to the Local 560s bargaining committee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gross believed that he worked on the same lines as everybody, African Americans, and that they should be afforded the same type of treatments,” Ruffin said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1954, Gross was appointed to the union’s special housing subcommittee tasked with finding a plot of land to build an integrated housing development. The project \u003ca href=\"https://www.habitatebsv.org/blog/milpitas-fair-housing-history\">met its fair share of setbacks\u003c/a> along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At every point in time as this is being developed … [there were always] these barriers that would be thrown out there,” Ruffin said. “You can’t build this here because of sewage. You can’t do this because of this. You can’t do this because of that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite obstacles, Gross and local union members were able to find some old ranch land for a housing development. With funding and additional support from a handful of Quaker-affiliated organizations, they started to build. When it was completed, it was one of the first integrated neighborhoods in the country, and it helped diversify Milpitas’ population, which had previously been majority white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When it did open … it was a big deal … it was plastered all over newspapers,” Ruffin said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gross was eventually elected mayor of Milpitas. He was one of the first African Americans to hold that office in the state of California. Reflecting on his legacy, Gross was quoted in \u003cem>The Peninsula Times Tribune\u003c/em>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A citizens’ group said they wanted to change the city’s name … I told them we should change its image instead. We sat down and developed a master plan that brought Milpitas from a small farm community to the thriving city it is today. It’s a city on the move.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Ford Factory Closes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ford changed the face of Milpitas, but the golden age of American cars wouldn’t last forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the last Ford cars built at the San José Assembly Plant before the factory closed in 1983. \u003ccite>(The Milpitas Beat, courtesy of the Sabin family)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was the late [19]70s, and all the different auto manufacturers, they were producing more cars than they were selling,” Wilcoxson remembered. The \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1969-1976/oil-embargo\">1973 oil crisis spelled disaster\u003c/a> for big American cars. “Everything kind of shut back the amount of cars people were buying.” And Japanese automakers started gaining market share with their smaller, more fuel-efficient cars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ford eventually closed the Milpitas operation in 1983.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a manager’s meeting that the plant was going to be closing, that they were completely shutting it down and moving production to the Midwest,” Wilcoxson recalled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who stayed until the end helped to pack up the plant, stripping it of anything valuable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were literally having a yard sale in the parking lot of tool benches, air guns,” Wilcoxson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Becoming the Great Mall of Milpitas\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After the factory closed in 1983, Milpitas’ economy took a hit. Thousands of high-paying jobs were gone. Soon enough, however, the 1980s and ’90s Silicon Valley boom brought new opportunities to the area, but not in manufacturing. The factory itself sat vacant for nearly ten years before it would be transformed into the mall it is today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, the Great Mall of Milpitas celebrated its grand opening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040155\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040155\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1600\" height=\"1067\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy.jpg 1600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1600px) 100vw, 1600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Great Mall of Milpitas holds a secret history. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The grand opening was an exciting event, tying up traffic on the nearby freeways and bringing shoppers out to marvel at the massive retail space. There was even an old Ford car on display, a nod to the building’s prior use.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Visit the Great Mall today, and it’s much harder to see remnants of the past. The high ceilings crisscrossed with industrial beams are one tell, and the shipping area’s green paint is yet another. But standing in the food court, it’s hard to imagine Mustangs rolling off an assembly line. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t close your eyes and try.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Post World War II America was a time of economic opportunity and people wanted cars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement:\u003c/strong> Mustang, the original, America’s favorite sports car. With three new models.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Imagine the open road, cruising with the windows down, radio blaring. The epitome of freedom. That’s the image Ford was selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>Falcon 1966, low, lean, long hooded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>At the start of the 1960s Ford had cornered nearly a third of the U.S. car market. Many of those vehicles were manufactured in the Midwest, but Ford automobiles were so popular the company had expanded manufacturing nationwide. Ford had outposts in Edgewater, New Jersey, Seattle, Washington, Dallas, Texas, just to name a few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>You’re ahead in a Ford, all the way!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Many of these factories have since closed but some of this history is still hidden in plain sight. You might have even stepped foot in an old Ford factory without knowing it. Take the Great Mall of Milpitas in the San Francisco Bay Area, for instance.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bob Marsden:\u003c/strong> This is Bob Marsden, reporting from the Ford Motor Company assembly plant at Milpitas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That’s right. The Great Mall of Milpitas used to be an enormous Ford factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bob Marsden: \u003c/strong>This particular facility which employees 3,000 is the West Coast plant for Mustang and light truck assemblage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The plant first opened seventy years ago, on May 17th, 1955. At the time, it was one of the largest automotive assembly plants on the West Coast. It represented thousands of good jobs and brought social change to what had been a small, agricultural community. But visit the mall today and there isn’t much left to mark this history. Bay Curious listener Brandon Choy only knows about it because he saw a plaque once that mentioned the old Ford factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brandon Choy:\u003c/strong> I was just wondering what the story behind this former Ford plant is and how it eventually became the Great Mall?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>This week on Bay Curious, we dive into the history of the Ford factory that put Milpitas on the map. We’ll hear from former Ford workers about life at the factory and then we’ll explore how the plant changed Milpitas itself, transforming a quiet agricultural town into a bustling city, a city with one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America. I’m Katrina Schwartz. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Ford factory opened in Milpitas in 1955. To help us understand its history and how it became the Great Mall of Milpitas, we sent Bay Curious producer Gabriela Glueck to the Mall to meet up with someone who used to work there when it was a Ford plant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck:\u003c/strong> Standing inside of the Great Mall today, it feels like any other American mall. But it’s got kind of an unusual shape. It’s a rough oval with a band of stores around the outside and a hidden open space in the middle where trucks can drive in shipments. It’s this secret inner area Karl Cortese is most excited to show me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I just kind of know where everything is at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Karl started working in this building back in 1968 when it was a Ford plant. He spent 15 years sweating on the assembly line.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>There wasn’t any air conditioning. So I remember that very well, because I used to take it all the way down to my underwear and then put my coveralls on and that’s all I had to wear, because it was so hot in here, so noisy and everything else. So I put up with it like I said for a long time, but it’s okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Walking through the Great Mall with Karl is a strange experience. Where I see a food court, he sees an assembly line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I could tell you small parts here, upholstery was here, trim was over here, chassis was over here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It’s like he can still hear the clanging metal, the chatter of workers, the sounds of nonstop progress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>They’re rolling and they’re moving fast. They’re the new Ford trucks 460 with certified economy. And they’re coming off the assembly lines and onto the highways, heading for Ford dealers all over America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Talking with Karl got me wondering why Ford decided to build a factory in Milpitas at all. The answer is actually pretty simple. In the 1950s, Milpitas was largely agricultural land. The name Milpitas means “little cornfield” and after World War II, Ford was looking to expand. Ford had already been operating for decades in Richmond, California. During the war, the factory there manufactured tanks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But post-war, the Richmond plant was just too small and outdated. So in 1955, Ford packed up its boxes and moved to Milpitas, quite the upgrade. The new factory was roughly three times as big. 1,414,000 square feet to be exact. That’s nearly 25 football fields dedicated to making as many cars as humanly possible. I spoke with a handful of men who worked at the Milpitas Ford Factory about their jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I put the back hinges on for the three doors and things like that, and the station wagons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Don Conley:\u003c/strong> So I was putting in the glass, the side glass, the quarter glass windshield and back glass, wherever they needed me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Leo Cozzo: \u003c/strong>I worked in the Mustang, putting the pin stripes on and big emblems and louvers and stuff like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>I also worked in the repair hole at the end of the production line on cars that had missing parts, damaged parts, that sort of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Each worker was assigned a station and a task, to repeat, repeat, repeat. One former worker told me it was a job that could turn young bodies into old ones real fast. They worked on all sorts of models, the F-series pickups, the Mustangs, the Falcons and the Pintos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pinto Advertisement:\u003c/strong> The new little car from Ford, moves with a tough little engine that’s not only frisky but thrifty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>But outside of the factory walls a problem was brewing: a housing problem. When Ford relocated to Milpitas, many Richmond workers came with it, including many of the plant’s African American employees. They needed a place to live.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II: \u003c/strong>And they’re looking around, and they’re like, you know, okay, so what’s down there? And so how are we going to keep our jobs going back and forth? There is no BART, there is no CalTrain, there is none of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>That’s Herbert Ruffin II. He’s an Associate Professor of African American studies at Syracuse University. He also spent part of his childhood in Milpitas. He says an African American worker named Ben Gross was a key player in solving this housing crisis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gross was born and raised in Arkansas, lived under Jim Crow laws, and picked cotton during the Great Depression. He joined the army, then joined Ford. He quickly became involved in union politics with the Local 560, a branch of the United Auto Workers Union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II:\u003c/strong> Gross believed that he worked on the same lines as everybody, African Americans, and that they should be afforded the same type of treatments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Top of mind was housing for Black workers who were barred from buying or renting homes in many towns nearby. Gross was appointed to a special housing subcommittee, tasked with finding a plot of land to build an integrated community. But prior to Ford’s move, Milpitas had been almost entirely white. And not everyone was thrilled at the prospect of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II:\u003c/strong> But at every point in time as this is being developed, there were always like these, these barriers that would be thrown out there. Well, you can’t build this here because of sewage. You can’t do this because of this. You can’t do this because of that, that, that, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Despite obstacles, Gross and local union members were able to find some old ranch land for a housing development. It would become one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America. And with funding and additional support from a handful of Quaker affiliated organizations, they started to build.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II: \u003c/strong>When it did open it, and it was a big deal, you know, it was plastered all over newspapers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Called Sunnyhills, it opened in 1956, just a year after the factory. Soon families like John Wilcoxson’s started moving in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>We had a Black family on one side of us, a Hispanic family on the other side, and we had a Polish family on the backside of our fence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>John is white and was young enough that he didn’t realize there was anything special about such a diverse community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> And we knew all of them going in, and my father worked with them. All knew him by name, and it was just something that I grew up with, and I thought was normal everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>The Union Hall was at the entrance to the neighborhood and pretty much everyone who lived there worked at Ford. John told me there was a real community feel to the place. From the Fourth of July parties to the potlucks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors also came together on more somber occasions, like the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. In its wake, the Sunnyhills United Methodist Church held a mourning event, with an open conversation about race.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> And it wasn’t until I was older and actually we were moving away that my parents told me that – and this is when the ‘65 riots were starting – that not everybody lived in a nice community like we had been in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Ben Gross, the man responsible for getting Sunnyhills built, was eventually elected Mayor of Milpitas. He was one of the first African Americans to hold that office in the state of California. Reflecting on his legacy in Milpitas, Gross was quoted in \u003cem>The Peninsula Times Tribune\u003c/em> saying that when:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ben Gross:\u003c/strong> A citizens’ group said they wanted to change the city’s name, I told them we should change its image instead. We sat down and developed a master plan that brought Milpitas from a small farm community to the thriving city it is today. It’s a city on the move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Ford was a big part of this “city on the move.” And many neighborhood kids like John, who grew up in Sunnyhills, ended up working at the factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>Going into Ford, it was not something I originally had planned on doing, but it was sort of a natural event once it kind of came about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>For many, working at the Ford plant was a pathway to the middle class, they could buy a home, have a family, and a guaranteed retirement. But all that was threatened when American automobile sales started slowing. John remembers it all too well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> Well it was the late ’70s, and everybody, all the different auto manufacturers, they were producing more cars than they were selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It was a real rough patch for the American car industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>There was the oil crisis, everything kind of shut back the amount of cars people were buying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>He remembers seeing last year’s models lined up in the factory lot, Ford had made more than they could sell. It was evidence of a changing tide. In 1983, the factory closed its doors, thousands of well-paid jobs were gone. But this was the hey-day of Silicon Valley and tech companies were bringing a new kind of job to the area. The factory itself lay vacant for a while — nearly 10 years — until it would get the chance to fulfill its second destiny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV: \u003c/strong>A huge commercial venture that’s opened up hundreds of jobs in Milpitas tied up traffic on the Montague expressway today and sent thousands of people into a shopping frenzy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>In 1990s America, a massive indoor space like that could only really become one thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV:\u003c/strong> And with that, the Great Mall opened its doors today, offering the promise of an economic boom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Local TV station KGO was there to cover the mall’s 1994 opening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV:\u003c/strong> Built on the site of the old Ford Motor Company plant, this monster outlet mall is expected to generate 350 million dollars worth of annual sales.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It was a festive occasion, people milling around, exploring all the new stores. The footage is grainy, but you can still make out what looks like an old-school Ford car on the floor. A small history exhibit commemorating the factory. These days, that car and the exhibit are no more. But traces of the past still linger, if you know where to look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious producer Gabriela Glueck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brandon Choy: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Our show is made by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED. Thanks for listening. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Karl Cortese, the Great Mall of Milpitas is much more than just a mall. He’s come here often over the years, to go shopping with his wife or spend time at the Dave and Buster’s with his grandkids. But each time he visits, he can’t help but remember the place as it used to be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Karl’s day, the building was home to a massive Ford factory. Officially known as the San José Assembly Plant, the factory opened its doors in 1955. Karl started working there in 1968 and spent 15 years on the assembly line. For him, the mall’s shipping center offers the best window into the building’s industrial past. “There was that old green color and white letters and … the floor was all concrete,” Karl said. If you peek inside these days, not much has changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040150\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040150\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/FordInterior-copy-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The green walls at Ford’s San José Assembly Plant are still part of the Great Mall today. \u003ccite>(The Milpitas Beat, courtesy of the Sabin family)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the only other way a visitor might know this building used to manufacture Ford cars is a small — and easy-to-overlook — display case of Ford-era memorabilia. For the most part, mall goers seem unaware of the factory’s history and its importance to the surrounding area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Ford plant put Milpitas on the map, forever changing what had been a sleepy agricultural town into a thriving city. The factory’s opening also sparked historic social change: the creation of one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039976\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039976\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GREATMALLMILPITAS-02-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Karl Cortese, a former employee at the Ford Motor Company’s San José Assembly Plant, stands outside the Great Mall in Milpitas on April 29, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Moving to Milpitas\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Before Ford opened its Milpitas plant, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/places/ford-motor-company-assembly-plant.htm\">the automaker had already been operating in Richmond for decades\u003c/a>. During World War II, the so-called “Richmond Tank Depot” helped produce jeeps, tanks, and other military vehicles. After the war ended, the American economy began to boom and demand for American cars increased. The outdated Richmond factory struggled to meet demand. Ford needed to expand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1950s California, Milpitas was a great option. The agricultural town offered expansive acreage at an affordable price. According to historian Herbert Ruffin II, Milpitas “was just a place that you drive through [and] you see nothing but cornfields.” Ruffin spent part of his childhood in Milpitas, a town so agriculturally rooted its name literally means “little cornfield.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After staving off annexation from San José, Milpitas was officially incorporated in 1954. According to Herbert, “San José wanted Milpitas real bad, primarily because they wanted … the tax money that came from that [Ford] plant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Ford factory opened in 1955, just a year later, it called Milpitas home.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Working at the San José Assembly Plant\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>David McFeely grew up in Milpitas, with the Ford factory in the background. “On a clear summer night, when sound really carries, you could hear the switch engines moving all the freight cars in and out of the Ford plant,” McFeely said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For a high school graduate on the job hunt, Ford was a great option. It offered some of the highest pay in the Santa Clara Valley. McFeely’s plan was to stay short-term and save up money to go to college. So, he joined the factory’s part-time replacement program. When he finally got the chance to peek behind the curtain, he was in awe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I mean for a technical mind, it was like being a kid in a candy store,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039982\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039982\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1545\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-800x618.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1020x788.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1536x1187.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-3-KQED-1920x1483.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicle frames on the assembly line at the San José Assembly Plant, 1974. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Ford Motor Company)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Milpitas operation was responsible for making some iconic Ford models — the Mustang, F-series pickups, Pintos, and Falcons. The 1.4 million square-foot factory served as Ford’s West Coast production outpost. At its peak, the plant employed nearly 6,000 workers and operated at a rate of 55 cars and 22 trucks per hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“God knows how they were able to do this,” McFeely said. “But the logistical coordination was fascinating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The expansive factory was a network of assembly lines. There was the paint department, the trim department, the chassis department, the repair hole, just to name a few. Workers were assigned a station and task to repeat ad nauseam. Former Ford worker John Wilcoxson said that “[the work] could get boring at times, but … you kind of had to make your own fun.” He remembered causing a stir when he smuggled headphones into the factory to provide a soundtrack to the monotonous, repetitive work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just sort of some nice background noise, instead of the constant clash of metal and things going on around me,” Wilcoxson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039981\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039981\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1545\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-800x618.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1020x788.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1536x1187.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250513-GREAT-MALL-OF-MILPITAS-ARCHIVAL-2-KQED-1920x1483.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An inside look at the San José Assembly Plant, 1974. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Ford Motor Company)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Former workers remember a strong community around the plant. There was a company softball team where different departments competed against one another and during the holiday season, workers barbecued on the blacksmith’s forge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many workers lived in a nearby neighborhood called Sunnyhills, which Ford’s local union built to accommodate an influx of workers to Milpitas. There was even a Ford Union Hall in the development. But the most remarkable thing about the neighborhood was its diversity. In 1956, when it opened, Sunnyhills was one of the first planned integrated neighborhoods in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Story of Sunnyhills\u003c/h2>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/S5QKBKrNKGo'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/S5QKBKrNKGo'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>When Ford shut down its Richmond plant to relocate to Milpitas, many workers opted to continue at the new location. But Milpitas lacked housing, particularly for African American workers who were barred from buying or renting homes in the surrounding towns. Historian Herbert Ruffin II says many of these workers first tried commuting from Richmond by car.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There [was] no BART, there [was] no Caltrain, there [was] none of that,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it was a long commute, over 40 miles. Ford’s union leaders were determined to find a solution to this housing problem.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Leading the charge was\u003ca href=\"https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/ben-gross-1921/\"> an African American worker by the name of Ben Gross\u003c/a>. Gross was born and raised in Arkansas, lived under Jim Crow laws, and picked cotton during the Great Depression. After leaving the army, he joined Ford and quickly became an active union member. In 1950, he was the first African American elected to the Local 560s bargaining committee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gross believed that he worked on the same lines as everybody, African Americans, and that they should be afforded the same type of treatments,” Ruffin said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1954, Gross was appointed to the union’s special housing subcommittee tasked with finding a plot of land to build an integrated housing development. The project \u003ca href=\"https://www.habitatebsv.org/blog/milpitas-fair-housing-history\">met its fair share of setbacks\u003c/a> along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At every point in time as this is being developed … [there were always] these barriers that would be thrown out there,” Ruffin said. “You can’t build this here because of sewage. You can’t do this because of this. You can’t do this because of that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite obstacles, Gross and local union members were able to find some old ranch land for a housing development. With funding and additional support from a handful of Quaker-affiliated organizations, they started to build. When it was completed, it was one of the first integrated neighborhoods in the country, and it helped diversify Milpitas’ population, which had previously been majority white.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When it did open … it was a big deal … it was plastered all over newspapers,” Ruffin said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gross was eventually elected mayor of Milpitas. He was one of the first African Americans to hold that office in the state of California. Reflecting on his legacy, Gross was quoted in \u003cem>The Peninsula Times Tribune\u003c/em>:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A citizens’ group said they wanted to change the city’s name … I told them we should change its image instead. We sat down and developed a master plan that brought Milpitas from a small farm community to the thriving city it is today. It’s a city on the move.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Ford Factory Closes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ford changed the face of Milpitas, but the golden age of American cars wouldn’t last forever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy.jpg 1000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/LastFordCar-copy-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1000px) 100vw, 1000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the last Ford cars built at the San José Assembly Plant before the factory closed in 1983. \u003ccite>(The Milpitas Beat, courtesy of the Sabin family)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was the late [19]70s, and all the different auto manufacturers, they were producing more cars than they were selling,” Wilcoxson remembered. The \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1969-1976/oil-embargo\">1973 oil crisis spelled disaster\u003c/a> for big American cars. “Everything kind of shut back the amount of cars people were buying.” And Japanese automakers started gaining market share with their smaller, more fuel-efficient cars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ford eventually closed the Milpitas operation in 1983.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a manager’s meeting that the plant was going to be closing, that they were completely shutting it down and moving production to the Midwest,” Wilcoxson recalled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who stayed until the end helped to pack up the plant, stripping it of anything valuable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They were literally having a yard sale in the parking lot of tool benches, air guns,” Wilcoxson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Becoming the Great Mall of Milpitas\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After the factory closed in 1983, Milpitas’ economy took a hit. Thousands of high-paying jobs were gone. Soon enough, however, the 1980s and ’90s Silicon Valley boom brought new opportunities to the area, but not in manufacturing. The factory itself sat vacant for nearly ten years before it would be transformed into the mall it is today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1994, the Great Mall of Milpitas celebrated its grand opening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12040155\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12040155\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1600\" height=\"1067\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy.jpg 1600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/250429-GreatMallofMilpitas-24-BL-copy-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1600px) 100vw, 1600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Great Mall of Milpitas holds a secret history. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The grand opening was an exciting event, tying up traffic on the nearby freeways and bringing shoppers out to marvel at the massive retail space. There was even an old Ford car on display, a nod to the building’s prior use.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Visit the Great Mall today, and it’s much harder to see remnants of the past. The high ceilings crisscrossed with industrial beams are one tell, and the shipping area’s green paint is yet another. But standing in the food court, it’s hard to imagine Mustangs rolling off an assembly line. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t close your eyes and try.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Post World War II America was a time of economic opportunity and people wanted cars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement:\u003c/strong> Mustang, the original, America’s favorite sports car. With three new models.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Imagine the open road, cruising with the windows down, radio blaring. The epitome of freedom. That’s the image Ford was selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>Falcon 1966, low, lean, long hooded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>At the start of the 1960s Ford had cornered nearly a third of the U.S. car market. Many of those vehicles were manufactured in the Midwest, but Ford automobiles were so popular the company had expanded manufacturing nationwide. Ford had outposts in Edgewater, New Jersey, Seattle, Washington, Dallas, Texas, just to name a few.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>You’re ahead in a Ford, all the way!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Many of these factories have since closed but some of this history is still hidden in plain sight. You might have even stepped foot in an old Ford factory without knowing it. Take the Great Mall of Milpitas in the San Francisco Bay Area, for instance.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bob Marsden:\u003c/strong> This is Bob Marsden, reporting from the Ford Motor Company assembly plant at Milpitas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That’s right. The Great Mall of Milpitas used to be an enormous Ford factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Bob Marsden: \u003c/strong>This particular facility which employees 3,000 is the West Coast plant for Mustang and light truck assemblage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>The plant first opened seventy years ago, on May 17th, 1955. At the time, it was one of the largest automotive assembly plants on the West Coast. It represented thousands of good jobs and brought social change to what had been a small, agricultural community. But visit the mall today and there isn’t much left to mark this history. Bay Curious listener Brandon Choy only knows about it because he saw a plaque once that mentioned the old Ford factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brandon Choy:\u003c/strong> I was just wondering what the story behind this former Ford plant is and how it eventually became the Great Mall?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>This week on Bay Curious, we dive into the history of the Ford factory that put Milpitas on the map. We’ll hear from former Ford workers about life at the factory and then we’ll explore how the plant changed Milpitas itself, transforming a quiet agricultural town into a bustling city, a city with one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America. I’m Katrina Schwartz. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Ford factory opened in Milpitas in 1955. To help us understand its history and how it became the Great Mall of Milpitas, we sent Bay Curious producer Gabriela Glueck to the Mall to meet up with someone who used to work there when it was a Ford plant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck:\u003c/strong> Standing inside of the Great Mall today, it feels like any other American mall. But it’s got kind of an unusual shape. It’s a rough oval with a band of stores around the outside and a hidden open space in the middle where trucks can drive in shipments. It’s this secret inner area Karl Cortese is most excited to show me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I just kind of know where everything is at.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Karl started working in this building back in 1968 when it was a Ford plant. He spent 15 years sweating on the assembly line.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>There wasn’t any air conditioning. So I remember that very well, because I used to take it all the way down to my underwear and then put my coveralls on and that’s all I had to wear, because it was so hot in here, so noisy and everything else. So I put up with it like I said for a long time, but it’s okay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Walking through the Great Mall with Karl is a strange experience. Where I see a food court, he sees an assembly line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I could tell you small parts here, upholstery was here, trim was over here, chassis was over here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It’s like he can still hear the clanging metal, the chatter of workers, the sounds of nonstop progress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement: \u003c/strong>They’re rolling and they’re moving fast. They’re the new Ford trucks 460 with certified economy. And they’re coming off the assembly lines and onto the highways, heading for Ford dealers all over America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Talking with Karl got me wondering why Ford decided to build a factory in Milpitas at all. The answer is actually pretty simple. In the 1950s, Milpitas was largely agricultural land. The name Milpitas means “little cornfield” and after World War II, Ford was looking to expand. Ford had already been operating for decades in Richmond, California. During the war, the factory there manufactured tanks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But post-war, the Richmond plant was just too small and outdated. So in 1955, Ford packed up its boxes and moved to Milpitas, quite the upgrade. The new factory was roughly three times as big. 1,414,000 square feet to be exact. That’s nearly 25 football fields dedicated to making as many cars as humanly possible. I spoke with a handful of men who worked at the Milpitas Ford Factory about their jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Karl Cortese: \u003c/strong>I put the back hinges on for the three doors and things like that, and the station wagons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Don Conley:\u003c/strong> So I was putting in the glass, the side glass, the quarter glass windshield and back glass, wherever they needed me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Leo Cozzo: \u003c/strong>I worked in the Mustang, putting the pin stripes on and big emblems and louvers and stuff like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>I also worked in the repair hole at the end of the production line on cars that had missing parts, damaged parts, that sort of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Each worker was assigned a station and a task, to repeat, repeat, repeat. One former worker told me it was a job that could turn young bodies into old ones real fast. They worked on all sorts of models, the F-series pickups, the Mustangs, the Falcons and the Pintos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pinto Advertisement:\u003c/strong> The new little car from Ford, moves with a tough little engine that’s not only frisky but thrifty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>But outside of the factory walls a problem was brewing: a housing problem. When Ford relocated to Milpitas, many Richmond workers came with it, including many of the plant’s African American employees. They needed a place to live.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II: \u003c/strong>And they’re looking around, and they’re like, you know, okay, so what’s down there? And so how are we going to keep our jobs going back and forth? There is no BART, there is no CalTrain, there is none of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>That’s Herbert Ruffin II. He’s an Associate Professor of African American studies at Syracuse University. He also spent part of his childhood in Milpitas. He says an African American worker named Ben Gross was a key player in solving this housing crisis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gross was born and raised in Arkansas, lived under Jim Crow laws, and picked cotton during the Great Depression. He joined the army, then joined Ford. He quickly became involved in union politics with the Local 560, a branch of the United Auto Workers Union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II:\u003c/strong> Gross believed that he worked on the same lines as everybody, African Americans, and that they should be afforded the same type of treatments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Top of mind was housing for Black workers who were barred from buying or renting homes in many towns nearby. Gross was appointed to a special housing subcommittee, tasked with finding a plot of land to build an integrated community. But prior to Ford’s move, Milpitas had been almost entirely white. And not everyone was thrilled at the prospect of change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II:\u003c/strong> But at every point in time as this is being developed, there were always like these, these barriers that would be thrown out there. Well, you can’t build this here because of sewage. You can’t do this because of this. You can’t do this because of that, that, that, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Despite obstacles, Gross and local union members were able to find some old ranch land for a housing development. It would become one of the first integrated neighborhoods in America. And with funding and additional support from a handful of Quaker affiliated organizations, they started to build.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Herbert Ruffin II: \u003c/strong>When it did open it, and it was a big deal, you know, it was plastered all over newspapers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Called Sunnyhills, it opened in 1956, just a year after the factory. Soon families like John Wilcoxson’s started moving in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>We had a Black family on one side of us, a Hispanic family on the other side, and we had a Polish family on the backside of our fence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>John is white and was young enough that he didn’t realize there was anything special about such a diverse community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> And we knew all of them going in, and my father worked with them. All knew him by name, and it was just something that I grew up with, and I thought was normal everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>The Union Hall was at the entrance to the neighborhood and pretty much everyone who lived there worked at Ford. John told me there was a real community feel to the place. From the Fourth of July parties to the potlucks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors also came together on more somber occasions, like the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. In its wake, the Sunnyhills United Methodist Church held a mourning event, with an open conversation about race.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> And it wasn’t until I was older and actually we were moving away that my parents told me that – and this is when the ‘65 riots were starting – that not everybody lived in a nice community like we had been in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Ben Gross, the man responsible for getting Sunnyhills built, was eventually elected Mayor of Milpitas. He was one of the first African Americans to hold that office in the state of California. Reflecting on his legacy in Milpitas, Gross was quoted in \u003cem>The Peninsula Times Tribune\u003c/em> saying that when:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ben Gross:\u003c/strong> A citizens’ group said they wanted to change the city’s name, I told them we should change its image instead. We sat down and developed a master plan that brought Milpitas from a small farm community to the thriving city it is today. It’s a city on the move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Ford was a big part of this “city on the move.” And many neighborhood kids like John, who grew up in Sunnyhills, ended up working at the factory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>Going into Ford, it was not something I originally had planned on doing, but it was sort of a natural event once it kind of came about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>For many, working at the Ford plant was a pathway to the middle class, they could buy a home, have a family, and a guaranteed retirement. But all that was threatened when American automobile sales started slowing. John remembers it all too well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson:\u003c/strong> Well it was the late ’70s, and everybody, all the different auto manufacturers, they were producing more cars than they were selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It was a real rough patch for the American car industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Wilcoxson: \u003c/strong>There was the oil crisis, everything kind of shut back the amount of cars people were buying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>He remembers seeing last year’s models lined up in the factory lot, Ford had made more than they could sell. It was evidence of a changing tide. In 1983, the factory closed its doors, thousands of well-paid jobs were gone. But this was the hey-day of Silicon Valley and tech companies were bringing a new kind of job to the area. The factory itself lay vacant for a while — nearly 10 years — until it would get the chance to fulfill its second destiny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV: \u003c/strong>A huge commercial venture that’s opened up hundreds of jobs in Milpitas tied up traffic on the Montague expressway today and sent thousands of people into a shopping frenzy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>In 1990s America, a massive indoor space like that could only really become one thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV:\u003c/strong> And with that, the Great Mall opened its doors today, offering the promise of an economic boom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>Local TV station KGO was there to cover the mall’s 1994 opening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>KGO-TV:\u003c/strong> Built on the site of the old Ford Motor Company plant, this monster outlet mall is expected to generate 350 million dollars worth of annual sales.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Gabriela Glueck: \u003c/strong>It was a festive occasion, people milling around, exploring all the new stores. The footage is grainy, but you can still make out what looks like an old-school Ford car on the floor. A small history exhibit commemorating the factory. These days, that car and the exhibit are no more. But traces of the past still linger, if you know where to look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious producer Gabriela Glueck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brandon Choy: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is produced in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Our show is made by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED. Thanks for listening. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "built-to-last-some-san-francisco-businesses-date-back-to-the-gold-rush",
"title": "Built to Last: Some San Francisco Businesses Date Back to the Gold Rush",
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"headTitle": "Built to Last: Some San Francisco Businesses Date Back to the Gold Rush | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The age of a place is a relative concept. To somebody from Asia or Europe, the city of San Francisco can seem almost amusingly young, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11621844/the-true-history-of-irish-coffee-and-its-san-francisco-origins\">its cherished establishments\u003c/a> like they’re just getting started. But to Bay Curious listener Scott Brenner — who’s about 30 years old — some Bay Area businesses seem almost ancient.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes his parents would take him to a restaurant, and tell him they’d been coming there since before he was born. “ And of course that’s a long time for me,” Brenner said, “but I know that there’s much more history in this area.” So it got him wondering: “What are the oldest businesses in the Bay Area?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out there are a lot of businesses that have been around for a really long time. There’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.normandinchryslerjeep.net/\">Normandin’s car dealership in San José\u003c/a>, which started out selling horses and buggies in 1875. And KCBS is understood to be one of the first radio stations in the world, getting its start around 1909.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And one of the very oldest local businesses is now known all over the world — Levi Strauss & Co., of blue jean fame.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A Gold Rush startup\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039212\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039212\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Levi’s brand logo stands in front of the headquarters of manufacturer Levi Strauss in San Francisco on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Andrej Sokolow/picture alliance via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Levi Strauss was a young Bavarian man who came to San Francisco in 1852 or ’53 to open a branch of his family’s dry goods business, which was already operating in New York. The California Gold Rush was in full swing, and Strauss got a warehouse downtown and started selling supplies, including canvas, bedding materials, and an especially sturdy cotton fabric called denim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Business went well. Even after the Gold Rush tapered off, there were still plenty of people doing tough outdoor work. In the early 1870s, Strauss started manufacturing a new product — one that would make his fortune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started with a letter from a customer, a tailor in Reno named Jacob Davis. He told Strauss about an unusual idea he had for making tough work pants last longer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12039203\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"686\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy-160x152.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He took little pieces of metal and added them to the pockets and the stress points,” explained Tracey Panek, Levi’s historian and director of archives. “And it made them tougher because if you have someone putting their hands in their pockets, it’s not going to tear.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davis told Strauss the pants were selling like hotcakes and he couldn’t keep up with the demand. He wanted a business partner. Strauss agreed, and in 1873, they received a \u003ca href=\"https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/D44AAOSwttRfnjpD/s-l1600.webp\">U.S. patent\u003c/a> for an improvement in fastening pocket openings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Levi Strauss archives are in a climate-controlled room on the top floor of the company’s headquarters at the base of Telegraph Hill. Hanging from the walls are bits of history: Albert Einstein’s jean jacket from the 1930s, a fluffy suede coat from when Levi’s outfitted the U.S. Olympic team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The important things we keep in a fireproof safe,” Panek said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Carefully, she pulled out the oldest known pair of jeans in the world, made in 1873 or ’74.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039202\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039202\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracey Panek, Levi’s historian and director of the archives, with the oldest known pair of jeans in the world. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most of the indigo dye that made them blue is faded now, and they’re a mottled grayish brown color. The crotch is completely worn through, most of the metal is gone, and what’s left of the denim has been stitched to an inner layer to stabilize it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was difficult to put the needle through because the denim was still really tough,” Panek said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original Levi’s, known as “501 waist overalls,” were serious work pants, basically personal protective gear to be worn on top of your other clothes. They had buttons for suspenders and a buckle on the back, so that the size was adjustable. Mining companies would purchase multiple pairs in large sizes so that workers could share them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1879, the 501s were selling for $1.46 a pair, close to $50 in today’s money. And the demand kept growing. Levi’s opened a factory and made jeans in San Francisco for well over a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The company introduced “Lady Levi’s” in 1934. They were high-waisted and loose, with a more feminine cut. During World War II, the U.S. government declared jeans an essential commodity, available only to defense workers. Soldiers wore them while serving overseas, which helped introduce them to Europe and Japan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1950s, Marlon Brando wore them with his leather jacket and his motorcycle when he played Johnny in \u003cem>The Wild One\u003c/em>. Jeans became the official uniform of cool. By the 1970s, everybody was wearing them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iyq4HZZ4H50\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Panek pointed out that the jeans haven’t changed much in over 150 years. “I showed you the very oldest pair of blue jeans that we have in the collection,” she said. “They don’t look a lot different to the Levi’s that we wear today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Feeding hungry sailors\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Levi Strauss capitalized on one of the main needs for people coming to San Francisco in its early years — clothing and supplies. But around the same time, there was another type of business catering to newcomers that was even more fundamental — food vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tadich Grill, a seafood restaurant in San Francisco’s financial district, is older than the state of California itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039210\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 988px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039210\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"988\" height=\"623\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241.jpg 988w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241-800x504.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241-160x101.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 988px) 100vw, 988px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadich Grill interior photos from 1974. \u003ccite>(Larry Tiscornia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It got its start in 1849 in a tent on an almost mile-long wharf jutting out from San Francisco’s main harbor. Three Croatian immigrants, Nikola Budrovich, Frano Kosta, and Antonio Gasparich, served food and coffee to merchants and sailors. They called their little spot Coffee Stand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, the restaurant has passed through just a handful of Croatian owners, including one John Tadich, who renamed it after himself in 1912. Since 1928, it’s been in the Buich family. It has never closed, and while it’s moved around a little bit, it’s still in the same neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartender Jose Maximilian Paredes showed me around the restaurant as the staff got ready to open for lunch. With its dark wood paneled walls and white linen tablecloths, it feels a little like someplace out of \u003cem>The Godfather\u003c/em> movies. Along one wall are private booths with wooden dividers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the kitchen, the chefs were prepping the charcoal grill, used to cook seafood in the traditional Croatian style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Great food. Really good food. I’ll tell you,” said Paredes, who has worked here for 25 years. His favorite dish? The cioppino, a seafood stew that originated here in San Francisco. “I’d eat it every day if I could,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039199\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12039199\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-800x1062.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1062\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-800x1062.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1020x1354.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-160x212.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1157x1536.jpg 1157w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1542x2048.jpg 1542w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573.jpg 1562w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadich Grill bartender Jose Maximilian Paredes. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Over the years, many famous people have dined here. Paredes brought out a well-worn guestbook with yellowed pages and set it on a table.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside are page after page of loopy signatures. Actors like Jack Nicholson and Carrie Grant. Singers like Linda Ronstadt and David Bowie. Politicians, sports stars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of them wrote little comments about the food or the hospitality. Matt Groening, the creator of the Simpsons, drew a cartoon of Homer Simpson saying, “Mmmm . . . Tadich Grill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out a lot of San Francisco’s mayors have been regulars. According to \u003cem>Tadich Grill, the History of San Francisco’s Oldest Restaurant, With Recipes\u003c/em> by John Briscoe, Willie Brown said that when he really wanted to show people the flavor of San Francisco, he would bring them here. Several Kennedys have dined here, as have George and Barbara Bush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paredes said it’s the people who come in that make him love working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you engage with customers and then you laugh and you smile,” he said, “and then you talk to ’em like you know them for a hundred years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039197\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039197\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Tadich Grill guestbook. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the restaurant opened, families and groups of colleagues filed inside. Some had made reservations for the booths. Others headed to the wraparound bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tadich Grill regular Matt Ricci sat down to his usual martini. He said he’s been coming here for almost 30 years. He likes to get some lunch or a drink and shoot the breeze with the staff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In all these years, he said, it hasn’t really changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s like a treat for a lot of people to come here,” Ricci said. “It’s that old school goodness that people love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I asked our question asker, Scott Brenner, to stop by for a bite. We ordered the cioppino as Paredes recommended. The waiter brought us bibs so we didn’t get it all over our clothes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was warm and garlicky … and fun to imagine diners enjoying this same dish some 150 years ago. Maybe even while wearing a pair of Levi’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Hey everyone, I’m Katrina Schwartz and you’re listening to Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s question comes from listener Scott Brenner in San Francisco. He grew up around here and knows a lot of the local establishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner:\u003c/strong> There are a few restaurants that I know my parents have been to since before I was born. And of course that’s a long time for me, but I know that there’s much more history in this area, so it’s got me wondering: what are the oldest businesses in the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It turns out there are a lot of businesses that have been doing their thing for a really long time. There’s a car dealership in San José, Normandin’s, that started out selling horses and buggies in 1875. And KCBS is understood to be one of the oldest radio stations in the world, getting its start around 1909.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>I did have a couple guesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Scott considered Ghirardelli chocolates, It’s-It ice cream sandwiches, but then he settled on one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>What I’m imagining is like Levi Strauss, like the apparel company would probably be number one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss of blue jean fame is in fact one of the oldest businesses in the Bay Area. So today on the show, we’re going to learn more about those blue jeans and Levi’s. And then we’ll grab a bite at the oldest restaurant in California. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today we’re visiting two of the Bay Area’s oldest businesses. To start us off, reporter Katherine Monahan takes us to where they both began in downtown San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss world headquarters takes up a whole city block at the foot of Telegraph Hill. There’s a landscaped plaza out front, where dozens of employees are getting lunch from food trucks and chatting by giant water fountains. These days, Levi’s is a massive enterprise, operating in over 120 countries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it started much more humbly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek:\u003c/strong> Levi Strauss and Company was born on the foundations of the Gold Rush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tracey Panek is Levi’s historian and director of archives, and she means that literally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>When I come to work in the morning, I literally am walking over the remains of a Gold Rush-era ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re standing on top of it right now. In fact, much of San Francisco’s financial district is built on landfill that includes old ships — abandoned when their sailors ran east to look for gold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>From 1849 up until the mid-1850s there were thousands of people coming in, and there were hundreds of ships that were coming in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>On one of them was a young Bavarian man called Levi Strauss. He came in 1852 or 53 to open a branch of his family’s dry goods business — which was already operating in New York. He got a warehouse here in San Francisco and started selling supplies — including canvas, bedding materials, and an especially sturdy cotton fabric called denim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And business went well! Even after the gold rush tapered off, there was still plenty of demand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>There’s lots of men who are doing tough outdoor work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>And in the early 1870s Strauss started making a new product, one that would make his fortune. It started with a letter from a customer, a tailor in Reno called Jacob Davis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>He also tells Levi about an unusual idea he had for making tough work pants. And it comes down to … here we go ’cause I have some of these — a little tiny piece of metal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Davis had started putting copper rivets onto the stress points on work pants — just like you still see on your jeans’ pockets today. He told Levi Strauss the pants were selling like hotcakes and he couldn’t keep up. He wanted a business partner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>So Levi and the company agree, and on May 20th, 1873, they receive a U.S. patent. For an improvement in fastening pocket openings. We refer to it here at Levi Strauss as the birth of the modern blue jean, or 501 as it would be called.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>For a closer look, Tracey takes me up to the top floor — and into the Levi’s archives room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>And I noticed you put on your white gloves just now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>I did put on my white gloves. Most of the collection in the archives is garments and we handle them in a way that’s gonna make them last for another 150 plus years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>It’s a climate controlled room, and hanging from the walls are bits of history. Albert Einstein’s jean jacket from the 1930s. A fluffy suede coat from when Levi’s outfitted the U.S. Olympic team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>The important things we keep in a fireproof safe, which I’m happy to show you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Yeah, let’s check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>Alright. So. I’m gonna pull out the very earliest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Carefully, Tracey carries a bundle over to a table and unwraps the oldest known pair of jeans in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Whoa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>This pair has been through the ringer, and has lost a lot of the blue indigo that makes them the blue jeans that we know of. There’s lots of speckles and dirt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>These are from 1873 or ’74. They’re a mottled greyish brown, and the crotch is completely worn through. Most of the metal is gone. What’s left of the denim has been stitched to an inner layer to stabilize it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>We worked with a conservator creating kind of an inner ghost pair of blue jeans, to then sew all of the parts that may have been just hanging.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> I’m just thinking how meticulous … like it’s making me think of archeologists who recreate the face of a Neanderthal woman or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>Oh no, it is. It was stitch by stitch. And look at them, it was difficult to put the needle through because the denim was still really tough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The original Levi’s were serious work pants, basically personal protective gear to be worn on top of your other clothes. They had buttons for suspenders and a buckle on the back, so that the size was adjustable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong> Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>You could get a large pair. Especially if you were like a mining company and you would just get several sizes, kind of big, and then more than one worker could wear them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The 501 waist overalls, as they were called, were a hit. By 1879 they were selling for $1.46 a pair! Levi’s opened a factory and made jeans here in San Francisco for well over a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the demand kept growing. One old advertisement quotes the 1926 world champion rodeo rider Lawton Champie:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Reading Lawton Champie Quote: \u003c/strong>I have worn Levi Strauss overalls ever since I was a small boy. I am over 23 years old. The Levi Strauss are the only clothes that will really stand the hard, rough brush work of a cowboy on the range, and they also are neat to wear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>In World War II the U.S. government declared jeans an essential commodity, available only to defense workers. Soldiers wore them while serving overseas, which helped introduce them to Europe and Japan. In the ’50s Marlon Brando wore them with his leather jacket and his motorcycle when he played Johnny in \u003cem>The Wild One\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Movie Clip: \u003c/strong>Johnny what are you rebelling against? Whaddaya got?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jeans became the official uniform of cool. By the 1970s, everybody was wearing them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Jefferson Airplane commercial: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Right now, with your white Levi’s, white Levi’s come in black …\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The company is still going strong, and still based in San Francisco, though these days the jeans are made mostly overseas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What has made Levi’s carry on for so long?\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>So I showed you the very oldest pair of blue jeans that we have in the collection dating to the 1870s. They don’t look a lot different to the Levi’s that we wear today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>So you think it’s really kind of about the jeans themselves?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong> Tracey Panek:\u003c/strong> I think it’s about the jeans themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss capitalized on one of the main needs for people coming to San Francisco in its early years — clothing and supplies. Now let’s go a few blocks down the street to a business that addressed an even more fundamental need –- food. And this business is even older.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes:\u003c/strong> As a matter of fact, it’s older than California state itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jose Maximilian Paredes is a bartender at Tadich Grill in San Francisco’s financial district.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>‘Cause, uh, California became union in 1850. So Tadich Grill, it was a year before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>So what you’re saying is this restaurant is older than the state of California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>It is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>He’s worked here for 25 years and he’s showing me around the place before it opens for the day. It’s classy but comfortable. It feels a little like someplace out of \u003cem>The Godfather\u003c/em>, with dark wood paneled walls and white linen table cloths. Along one wall are private booths with wooden dividers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>It’s like a little small room and you and your guests, you know, nobody bother you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tadich Grill got its start in 1849 in a tent on an almost mile-long wharf jutting out from San Francisco’s main harbor, where three Croatian immigrants served food and coffee to merchants and sailors. Their names were Nikola Budrovich, Frano Kosta, and Antonio Gasparich, and they called their little spot Coffee Stand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the kitchen\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Over the next 175 years the restaurant passed through just a handful of Croatian owners, including one John Tadich who renamed it after himself in 1912. Since 1928 it’s been in the Buich family. It has never closed, and while it’s moved around a little bit, it’s still in the same neighborhood. And once again getting ready to open for lunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>This is our kitchen. This is our chef Jeff Rodriguez. How you doing? Our kitchen, based on three cooks, is serving 400 customers a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Before COVID, he says it was more like 700.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>That’s for three people. That’s impressive. So you have the broiler on the side here. This is a charcoal wood mesquite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tadich Grill cooks fish over wood coals — in the Croatian style. seafood has always been a specialty here. It was a working class food in San Francisco’s early days. Cracked crab was on the menu in 1916 for 35 cents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Really good food. I’ll tell you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What’s your favorite?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Cioppino. Have you ever had cioppino before?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>No.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Cioppino is like a seafood stew, like a … it is like clams, mussels, prawns…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jose says he would eat it every day if he could. And he’s clearly not the only one who appreciates the food. Over the years, many famous people have dined here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>This is our guestbook. It’s not everybody will have the pleasure to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>He sets a well-worn book with yellowed pages onto the table.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Go ahead. Just go little by little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>There’s page after page of loopy signatures … sometimes with little comments about the food or the hospitality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Jack Nicholson. Johnny Carson. Linda Ronstadt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Yeah. They all were here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Carrie Grant. Doris Day …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Matt Groening, the creator of the Simpsons, drew a cartoon of Homer Simpson saying “Mmmm … Tadich Grill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out a lot of San Francisco’s mayors have been regulars. Willie Brown said when he really wanted to show people the flavor of San Francisco, he would bring them here. Several Kennedys have dined here, and George and Barbara Bush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Huey Lewis …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Oh, I remember I waited on Huey Lewis. I have pictures with him. He was sitting right there in that corner right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>David Bowie.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What fun. What a fun place to work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes:\u003c/strong> It is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>I remember when I started working here and I said, you know what, I’m just gonna stick around for a few years. I’m gonna make a few dollars and I’m gonna move on. But then for some reason I started liking it, loving it with passion, you know. When you engage with customers and then you laugh and you smile, and then you talk to ’em like you know them for a hundred years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>And now the grandfather clock shows it’s almost 11 a.m. — opening time. Customers are starting to line up outside. Jose turns on the light for the neon Tadich Grill sign out front.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Here we go. Alright. Yeah. Ready? We’ll find out. \u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>As he opens the doors, families and groups of colleagues step inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Morning. Welcome. Hi there. How are you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>One guy comes in, sits at the bar, and starts folding silverware into napkins. He doesn’t work here though; he just feels really comfortable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> What you doing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>I’m helping out, like I usually do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>His name is Matt Ricci. He likes to get some lunch or a drink and shoot the breeze with the staff. But when he first came in here, almost 30 years ago, it was to work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>When I moved here from New York, the guy that I worked for did maintenance at night. And I used to come here and actually clean the kitchen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>That didn’t really pay enough for him to be able to dine here. But then …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>I started working in finance and then when I could afford to eat lunch every once in a while, that’s, uh, that’s what I did. \u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> So first you were cleaning the kitchen at night and then next thing you knew, you were like in a suit and tie having a nice white wine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>Yep. Yep. Martini’s my choice though.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> How’s the martini here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>Ah, it’s the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Now he’s here two or three times a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Matt says overall it’s the consistency of this place that he loves. That in all these years, it hasn’t really changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>It’s like a treat for a lot of people to come here. It’s that old school goodness that, you know, that people love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>I asked our question asker, Scott Brenner to stop by for a bite and shared all that I found with him. Like how this place has been in business since before California was a state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>That’s really quite impressive. I had no idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>We order the cioppino as Jose recommended — a San Francisco dish that’s almost as old as the restaurant itself. The waiter brings us bibs so we don’t get it all over our clothes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>I have to say I’m normally not the biggest seafood person, but at a place like this, it works for sure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>It’s warm and garlicky and fun to imagine diners enjoying this same dish some 150 years ago. Maybe even while wearing a pair of Levi’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was reporter Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Scott Brenner for asking today’s question, which actually won a Bay Curious voting round. We’ve got three new questions for you to vote on in May:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1: \u003c/strong>There is a placard in Alviso describing how in 1890, P.H. Wheeler wanted to turn the salt marsh into a development called “New Chicago” but that fortune’s tide turned against him. Who was P.H. Wheeler and what happened?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 2: \u003c/strong>What is the longest stairway in San Francisco? What is the shortest? What is the steepest?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 3: \u003c/strong>Who funds those positive billboards in Oakland along 880? They went up right after the election and they l say things like “yesterday’s tomorrow is here today” or “what if that thing were a good thing.” They’re positive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Head on over to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/baycurious\">kqed.org/baycurious\u003c/a> to cast your vote. And if you’ve been wondering about some aspect of life in the Bay Area, you can submit your question there too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild — American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco-Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>See ya next week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Levi Strauss and Tadich Grill are two San Francisco businesses that have been around as long as the city. Here’s their history.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The age of a place is a relative concept. To somebody from Asia or Europe, the city of San Francisco can seem almost amusingly young, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11621844/the-true-history-of-irish-coffee-and-its-san-francisco-origins\">its cherished establishments\u003c/a> like they’re just getting started. But to Bay Curious listener Scott Brenner — who’s about 30 years old — some Bay Area businesses seem almost ancient.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes his parents would take him to a restaurant, and tell him they’d been coming there since before he was born. “ And of course that’s a long time for me,” Brenner said, “but I know that there’s much more history in this area.” So it got him wondering: “What are the oldest businesses in the Bay Area?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out there are a lot of businesses that have been around for a really long time. There’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.normandinchryslerjeep.net/\">Normandin’s car dealership in San José\u003c/a>, which started out selling horses and buggies in 1875. And KCBS is understood to be one of the first radio stations in the world, getting its start around 1909.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And one of the very oldest local businesses is now known all over the world — Levi Strauss & Co., of blue jean fame.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A Gold Rush startup\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039212\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039212\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-2208524376-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Levi’s brand logo stands in front of the headquarters of manufacturer Levi Strauss in San Francisco on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Andrej Sokolow/picture alliance via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Levi Strauss was a young Bavarian man who came to San Francisco in 1852 or ’53 to open a branch of his family’s dry goods business, which was already operating in New York. The California Gold Rush was in full swing, and Strauss got a warehouse downtown and started selling supplies, including canvas, bedding materials, and an especially sturdy cotton fabric called denim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Business went well. Even after the Gold Rush tapered off, there were still plenty of people doing tough outdoor work. In the early 1870s, Strauss started manufacturing a new product — one that would make his fortune.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started with a letter from a customer, a tailor in Reno named Jacob Davis. He told Strauss about an unusual idea he had for making tough work pants last longer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12039203\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"720\" height=\"686\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/early-20th-century-billboard-barn-copy-160x152.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He took little pieces of metal and added them to the pockets and the stress points,” explained Tracey Panek, Levi’s historian and director of archives. “And it made them tougher because if you have someone putting their hands in their pockets, it’s not going to tear.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Davis told Strauss the pants were selling like hotcakes and he couldn’t keep up with the demand. He wanted a business partner. Strauss agreed, and in 1873, they received a \u003ca href=\"https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/D44AAOSwttRfnjpD/s-l1600.webp\">U.S. patent\u003c/a> for an improvement in fastening pocket openings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Levi Strauss archives are in a climate-controlled room on the top floor of the company’s headquarters at the base of Telegraph Hill. Hanging from the walls are bits of history: Albert Einstein’s jean jacket from the 1930s, a fluffy suede coat from when Levi’s outfitted the U.S. Olympic team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The important things we keep in a fireproof safe,” Panek said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Carefully, she pulled out the oldest known pair of jeans in the world, made in 1873 or ’74.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039202\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039202\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-scaled.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3541-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracey Panek, Levi’s historian and director of the archives, with the oldest known pair of jeans in the world. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most of the indigo dye that made them blue is faded now, and they’re a mottled grayish brown color. The crotch is completely worn through, most of the metal is gone, and what’s left of the denim has been stitched to an inner layer to stabilize it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was difficult to put the needle through because the denim was still really tough,” Panek said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original Levi’s, known as “501 waist overalls,” were serious work pants, basically personal protective gear to be worn on top of your other clothes. They had buttons for suspenders and a buckle on the back, so that the size was adjustable. Mining companies would purchase multiple pairs in large sizes so that workers could share them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1879, the 501s were selling for $1.46 a pair, close to $50 in today’s money. And the demand kept growing. Levi’s opened a factory and made jeans in San Francisco for well over a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The company introduced “Lady Levi’s” in 1934. They were high-waisted and loose, with a more feminine cut. During World War II, the U.S. government declared jeans an essential commodity, available only to defense workers. Soldiers wore them while serving overseas, which helped introduce them to Europe and Japan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1950s, Marlon Brando wore them with his leather jacket and his motorcycle when he played Johnny in \u003cem>The Wild One\u003c/em>. Jeans became the official uniform of cool. By the 1970s, everybody was wearing them.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/Iyq4HZZ4H50'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/Iyq4HZZ4H50'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Panek pointed out that the jeans haven’t changed much in over 150 years. “I showed you the very oldest pair of blue jeans that we have in the collection,” she said. “They don’t look a lot different to the Levi’s that we wear today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Feeding hungry sailors\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Levi Strauss capitalized on one of the main needs for people coming to San Francisco in its early years — clothing and supplies. But around the same time, there was another type of business catering to newcomers that was even more fundamental — food vendors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tadich Grill, a seafood restaurant in San Francisco’s financial district, is older than the state of California itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039210\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 988px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039210\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"988\" height=\"623\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241.jpg 988w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241-800x504.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/GettyImages-1298895241-160x101.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 988px) 100vw, 988px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadich Grill interior photos from 1974. \u003ccite>(Larry Tiscornia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It got its start in 1849 in a tent on an almost mile-long wharf jutting out from San Francisco’s main harbor. Three Croatian immigrants, Nikola Budrovich, Frano Kosta, and Antonio Gasparich, served food and coffee to merchants and sailors. They called their little spot Coffee Stand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, the restaurant has passed through just a handful of Croatian owners, including one John Tadich, who renamed it after himself in 1912. Since 1928, it’s been in the Buich family. It has never closed, and while it’s moved around a little bit, it’s still in the same neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartender Jose Maximilian Paredes showed me around the restaurant as the staff got ready to open for lunch. With its dark wood paneled walls and white linen tablecloths, it feels a little like someplace out of \u003cem>The Godfather\u003c/em> movies. Along one wall are private booths with wooden dividers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the kitchen, the chefs were prepping the charcoal grill, used to cook seafood in the traditional Croatian style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Great food. Really good food. I’ll tell you,” said Paredes, who has worked here for 25 years. His favorite dish? The cioppino, a seafood stew that originated here in San Francisco. “I’d eat it every day if I could,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039199\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12039199\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-800x1062.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1062\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-800x1062.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1020x1354.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-160x212.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1157x1536.jpg 1157w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573-1542x2048.jpg 1542w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3515-scaled-e1746651588573.jpg 1562w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tadich Grill bartender Jose Maximilian Paredes. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Over the years, many famous people have dined here. Paredes brought out a well-worn guestbook with yellowed pages and set it on a table.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside are page after page of loopy signatures. Actors like Jack Nicholson and Carrie Grant. Singers like Linda Ronstadt and David Bowie. Politicians, sports stars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some of them wrote little comments about the food or the hospitality. Matt Groening, the creator of the Simpsons, drew a cartoon of Homer Simpson saying, “Mmmm . . . Tadich Grill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out a lot of San Francisco’s mayors have been regulars. According to \u003cem>Tadich Grill, the History of San Francisco’s Oldest Restaurant, With Recipes\u003c/em> by John Briscoe, Willie Brown said that when he really wanted to show people the flavor of San Francisco, he would bring them here. Several Kennedys have dined here, as have George and Barbara Bush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paredes said it’s the people who come in that make him love working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When you engage with customers and then you laugh and you smile,” he said, “and then you talk to ’em like you know them for a hundred years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12039197\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12039197\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/IMG_3525-scaled-e1746651497961-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Tadich Grill guestbook. \u003ccite>(Katherine Monahan/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the restaurant opened, families and groups of colleagues filed inside. Some had made reservations for the booths. Others headed to the wraparound bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tadich Grill regular Matt Ricci sat down to his usual martini. He said he’s been coming here for almost 30 years. He likes to get some lunch or a drink and shoot the breeze with the staff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In all these years, he said, it hasn’t really changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s like a treat for a lot of people to come here,” Ricci said. “It’s that old school goodness that people love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I asked our question asker, Scott Brenner, to stop by for a bite. We ordered the cioppino as Paredes recommended. The waiter brought us bibs so we didn’t get it all over our clothes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was warm and garlicky … and fun to imagine diners enjoying this same dish some 150 years ago. Maybe even while wearing a pair of Levi’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Hey everyone, I’m Katrina Schwartz and you’re listening to Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s question comes from listener Scott Brenner in San Francisco. He grew up around here and knows a lot of the local establishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner:\u003c/strong> There are a few restaurants that I know my parents have been to since before I was born. And of course that’s a long time for me, but I know that there’s much more history in this area, so it’s got me wondering: what are the oldest businesses in the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>It turns out there are a lot of businesses that have been doing their thing for a really long time. There’s a car dealership in San José, Normandin’s, that started out selling horses and buggies in 1875. And KCBS is understood to be one of the oldest radio stations in the world, getting its start around 1909.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>I did have a couple guesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Scott considered Ghirardelli chocolates, It’s-It ice cream sandwiches, but then he settled on one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>What I’m imagining is like Levi Strauss, like the apparel company would probably be number one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss of blue jean fame is in fact one of the oldest businesses in the Bay Area. So today on the show, we’re going to learn more about those blue jeans and Levi’s. And then we’ll grab a bite at the oldest restaurant in California. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today we’re visiting two of the Bay Area’s oldest businesses. To start us off, reporter Katherine Monahan takes us to where they both began in downtown San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss world headquarters takes up a whole city block at the foot of Telegraph Hill. There’s a landscaped plaza out front, where dozens of employees are getting lunch from food trucks and chatting by giant water fountains. These days, Levi’s is a massive enterprise, operating in over 120 countries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it started much more humbly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek:\u003c/strong> Levi Strauss and Company was born on the foundations of the Gold Rush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tracey Panek is Levi’s historian and director of archives, and she means that literally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>When I come to work in the morning, I literally am walking over the remains of a Gold Rush-era ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re standing on top of it right now. In fact, much of San Francisco’s financial district is built on landfill that includes old ships — abandoned when their sailors ran east to look for gold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>From 1849 up until the mid-1850s there were thousands of people coming in, and there were hundreds of ships that were coming in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>On one of them was a young Bavarian man called Levi Strauss. He came in 1852 or 53 to open a branch of his family’s dry goods business — which was already operating in New York. He got a warehouse here in San Francisco and started selling supplies — including canvas, bedding materials, and an especially sturdy cotton fabric called denim.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And business went well! Even after the gold rush tapered off, there was still plenty of demand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>There’s lots of men who are doing tough outdoor work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>And in the early 1870s Strauss started making a new product, one that would make his fortune. It started with a letter from a customer, a tailor in Reno called Jacob Davis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>He also tells Levi about an unusual idea he had for making tough work pants. And it comes down to … here we go ’cause I have some of these — a little tiny piece of metal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Davis had started putting copper rivets onto the stress points on work pants — just like you still see on your jeans’ pockets today. He told Levi Strauss the pants were selling like hotcakes and he couldn’t keep up. He wanted a business partner.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>So Levi and the company agree, and on May 20th, 1873, they receive a U.S. patent. For an improvement in fastening pocket openings. We refer to it here at Levi Strauss as the birth of the modern blue jean, or 501 as it would be called.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>For a closer look, Tracey takes me up to the top floor — and into the Levi’s archives room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>And I noticed you put on your white gloves just now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>I did put on my white gloves. Most of the collection in the archives is garments and we handle them in a way that’s gonna make them last for another 150 plus years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>It’s a climate controlled room, and hanging from the walls are bits of history. Albert Einstein’s jean jacket from the 1930s. A fluffy suede coat from when Levi’s outfitted the U.S. Olympic team.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>The important things we keep in a fireproof safe, which I’m happy to show you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Yeah, let’s check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>Alright. So. I’m gonna pull out the very earliest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Carefully, Tracey carries a bundle over to a table and unwraps the oldest known pair of jeans in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Whoa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>This pair has been through the ringer, and has lost a lot of the blue indigo that makes them the blue jeans that we know of. There’s lots of speckles and dirt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>These are from 1873 or ’74. They’re a mottled greyish brown, and the crotch is completely worn through. Most of the metal is gone. What’s left of the denim has been stitched to an inner layer to stabilize it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>We worked with a conservator creating kind of an inner ghost pair of blue jeans, to then sew all of the parts that may have been just hanging.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> I’m just thinking how meticulous … like it’s making me think of archeologists who recreate the face of a Neanderthal woman or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>Oh no, it is. It was stitch by stitch. And look at them, it was difficult to put the needle through because the denim was still really tough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The original Levi’s were serious work pants, basically personal protective gear to be worn on top of your other clothes. They had buttons for suspenders and a buckle on the back, so that the size was adjustable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong> Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>You could get a large pair. Especially if you were like a mining company and you would just get several sizes, kind of big, and then more than one worker could wear them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The 501 waist overalls, as they were called, were a hit. By 1879 they were selling for $1.46 a pair! Levi’s opened a factory and made jeans here in San Francisco for well over a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the demand kept growing. One old advertisement quotes the 1926 world champion rodeo rider Lawton Champie:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice Reading Lawton Champie Quote: \u003c/strong>I have worn Levi Strauss overalls ever since I was a small boy. I am over 23 years old. The Levi Strauss are the only clothes that will really stand the hard, rough brush work of a cowboy on the range, and they also are neat to wear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>In World War II the U.S. government declared jeans an essential commodity, available only to defense workers. Soldiers wore them while serving overseas, which helped introduce them to Europe and Japan. In the ’50s Marlon Brando wore them with his leather jacket and his motorcycle when he played Johnny in \u003cem>The Wild One\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Movie Clip: \u003c/strong>Johnny what are you rebelling against? Whaddaya got?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jeans became the official uniform of cool. By the 1970s, everybody was wearing them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Jefferson Airplane commercial: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Right now, with your white Levi’s, white Levi’s come in black …\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>The company is still going strong, and still based in San Francisco, though these days the jeans are made mostly overseas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What has made Levi’s carry on for so long?\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tracey Panek: \u003c/strong>So I showed you the very oldest pair of blue jeans that we have in the collection dating to the 1870s. They don’t look a lot different to the Levi’s that we wear today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>So you think it’s really kind of about the jeans themselves?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong> Tracey Panek:\u003c/strong> I think it’s about the jeans themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Levi Strauss capitalized on one of the main needs for people coming to San Francisco in its early years — clothing and supplies. Now let’s go a few blocks down the street to a business that addressed an even more fundamental need –- food. And this business is even older.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes:\u003c/strong> As a matter of fact, it’s older than California state itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jose Maximilian Paredes is a bartender at Tadich Grill in San Francisco’s financial district.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>‘Cause, uh, California became union in 1850. So Tadich Grill, it was a year before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>So what you’re saying is this restaurant is older than the state of California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>It is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>He’s worked here for 25 years and he’s showing me around the place before it opens for the day. It’s classy but comfortable. It feels a little like someplace out of \u003cem>The Godfather\u003c/em>, with dark wood paneled walls and white linen table cloths. Along one wall are private booths with wooden dividers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>It’s like a little small room and you and your guests, you know, nobody bother you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tadich Grill got its start in 1849 in a tent on an almost mile-long wharf jutting out from San Francisco’s main harbor, where three Croatian immigrants served food and coffee to merchants and sailors. Their names were Nikola Budrovich, Frano Kosta, and Antonio Gasparich, and they called their little spot Coffee Stand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the kitchen\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Over the next 175 years the restaurant passed through just a handful of Croatian owners, including one John Tadich who renamed it after himself in 1912. Since 1928 it’s been in the Buich family. It has never closed, and while it’s moved around a little bit, it’s still in the same neighborhood. And once again getting ready to open for lunch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>This is our kitchen. This is our chef Jeff Rodriguez. How you doing? Our kitchen, based on three cooks, is serving 400 customers a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Before COVID, he says it was more like 700.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>That’s for three people. That’s impressive. So you have the broiler on the side here. This is a charcoal wood mesquite.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Tadich Grill cooks fish over wood coals — in the Croatian style. seafood has always been a specialty here. It was a working class food in San Francisco’s early days. Cracked crab was on the menu in 1916 for 35 cents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Really good food. I’ll tell you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What’s your favorite?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Cioppino. Have you ever had cioppino before?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>No.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Cioppino is like a seafood stew, like a … it is like clams, mussels, prawns…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Jose says he would eat it every day if he could. And he’s clearly not the only one who appreciates the food. Over the years, many famous people have dined here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>This is our guestbook. It’s not everybody will have the pleasure to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>He sets a well-worn book with yellowed pages onto the table.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Go ahead. Just go little by little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>There’s page after page of loopy signatures … sometimes with little comments about the food or the hospitality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Jack Nicholson. Johnny Carson. Linda Ronstadt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Yeah. They all were here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Carrie Grant. Doris Day …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Matt Groening, the creator of the Simpsons, drew a cartoon of Homer Simpson saying “Mmmm … Tadich Grill.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It turns out a lot of San Francisco’s mayors have been regulars. Willie Brown said when he really wanted to show people the flavor of San Francisco, he would bring them here. Several Kennedys have dined here, and George and Barbara Bush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>Huey Lewis …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Oh, I remember I waited on Huey Lewis. I have pictures with him. He was sitting right there in that corner right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>David Bowie.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>What fun. What a fun place to work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes:\u003c/strong> It is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene): \u003c/strong>I remember when I started working here and I said, you know what, I’m just gonna stick around for a few years. I’m gonna make a few dollars and I’m gonna move on. But then for some reason I started liking it, loving it with passion, you know. When you engage with customers and then you laugh and you smile, and then you talk to ’em like you know them for a hundred years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>And now the grandfather clock shows it’s almost 11 a.m. — opening time. Customers are starting to line up outside. Jose turns on the light for the neon Tadich Grill sign out front.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Here we go. Alright. Yeah. Ready? We’ll find out. \u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>As he opens the doors, families and groups of colleagues step inside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jose Maximilian Paredes: \u003c/strong>Morning. Welcome. Hi there. How are you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>One guy comes in, sits at the bar, and starts folding silverware into napkins. He doesn’t work here though; he just feels really comfortable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> What you doing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>I’m helping out, like I usually do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>His name is Matt Ricci. He likes to get some lunch or a drink and shoot the breeze with the staff. But when he first came in here, almost 30 years ago, it was to work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>When I moved here from New York, the guy that I worked for did maintenance at night. And I used to come here and actually clean the kitchen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>That didn’t really pay enough for him to be able to dine here. But then …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>I started working in finance and then when I could afford to eat lunch every once in a while, that’s, uh, that’s what I did. \u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> So first you were cleaning the kitchen at night and then next thing you knew, you were like in a suit and tie having a nice white wine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>Yep. Yep. Martini’s my choice though.\u003cstrong> \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in scene):\u003c/strong> How’s the martini here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>Ah, it’s the best.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>Now he’s here two or three times a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Matt says overall it’s the consistency of this place that he loves. That in all these years, it hasn’t really changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matt Ricci: \u003c/strong>It’s like a treat for a lot of people to come here. It’s that old school goodness that, you know, that people love.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>I asked our question asker, Scott Brenner to stop by for a bite and shared all that I found with him. Like how this place has been in business since before California was a state.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>That’s really quite impressive. I had no idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>We order the cioppino as Jose recommended — a San Francisco dish that’s almost as old as the restaurant itself. The waiter brings us bibs so we don’t get it all over our clothes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Scott Brenner: \u003c/strong>I have to say I’m normally not the biggest seafood person, but at a place like this, it works for sure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/strong>It’s warm and garlicky and fun to imagine diners enjoying this same dish some 150 years ago. Maybe even while wearing a pair of Levi’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>That was reporter Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Scott Brenner for asking today’s question, which actually won a Bay Curious voting round. We’ve got three new questions for you to vote on in May:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1: \u003c/strong>There is a placard in Alviso describing how in 1890, P.H. Wheeler wanted to turn the salt marsh into a development called “New Chicago” but that fortune’s tide turned against him. Who was P.H. Wheeler and what happened?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 2: \u003c/strong>What is the longest stairway in San Francisco? What is the shortest? What is the steepest?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 3: \u003c/strong>Who funds those positive billboards in Oakland along 880? They went up right after the election and they l say things like “yesterday’s tomorrow is here today” or “what if that thing were a good thing.” They’re positive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/strong>Head on over to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/baycurious\">kqed.org/baycurious\u003c/a> to cast your vote. And if you’ve been wondering about some aspect of life in the Bay Area, you can submit your question there too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by: Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild — American Federation of Television and Radio Artists San Francisco-Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>See ya next week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Aaron Rothman and his wife decided to stay in San Francisco to raise their child, the cost of private school was part of their financial equation. That was the way most of their friends with two working parents did school in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s no secret, right? Public schools are not well funded in California, and that story isn’t getting any better,” said Rothman, who lives in Miraloma Park and works as a recruiter in the tech industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rothman’s son had a great experience at their local public elementary school. But when high school was around the corner, Rothman said he felt public schools were a better fit for high achievers or kids with a lot of needs. He worried his son would fall through the cracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The student population that sort of fell in the middle of the bell curve, we felt, was oftentimes just shuffled through in a way. And we were looking for something a little bit different,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rothman’s son goes to a local Catholic high school now — even though they’re not religious — and the family pays roughly $30,000 a year for their son’s tuition. Rothman said they make sacrifices, but it’s worth it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s thriving,” Rothman said. “He’s got straight As.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay Area does have high private school rates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A staggering 30% of kindergarten through 12th graders in San Francisco went to private schools during the 2023–24 school year. That’s more than triple California’s statewide average of 8% among kids who aren’t homeschooled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, most of the nine Bay Area counties are higher than the state average when it comes to private schooling, with the exception of Sonoma and Solano. Three Bay Area counties’ private schooling rates are double the statewide average — Santa Clara (16%), San Mateo (17%) and Marin (19%).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Percentage of K-12 students attending private schools (2023-24)\" aria-label=\"Map\" id=\"datawrapper-chart-NUfF7\" src=\"https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/NUfF7/5/\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" style=\"border: none;\" width=\"800\" height=\"687\" data-external=\"1\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area’s private schooling prevalence is notable compared to other large counties in California. Los Angeles’s private schooling rate is 10.4%, Sacramento nearly 7.5%, and Fresno, less than 3%.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are roughly 115 private schools in the city of San Francisco alone, and annual tuition can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $65,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stanford education economist Tom Dee said there could be many reasons why the private schooling rate in San Francisco is so high, including the city’s pockets of affluence, and “concerns about the quality and stability” of public schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dee said San Francisco has historically had a robust Catholic schooling system — there are now 34 Catholic schools in the city — which provide families with a parallel schooling track.[aside postID=mindshift_51909 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/23/2018/08/Horizons1-1180x664.jpg']While San Francisco Unified did lose 4,000 students over the past seven years, the high private schooling rate in the city has persisted for decades. According to California Department of Education data, private schooling in San Francisco was 30% dating all the way back to the 1998–99 school year, and roughly that rate in many of the years since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The large share of private school enrollment in [San Francisco] has been true ever since I started teaching in SFUSD in the mid-1990s,” Commissioner Alexander shared with KQED in an email, adding that he believed the trend started when the district began racially integrating schools back in the early 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s when the big declines in SFUSD enrollment began,” Alexander wrote, “due to wealthier, mostly white families leaving SFUSD to avoid integrated public schools.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Desegregation prompts demand for more private options\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alexander’s hunch about the origins of private schooling in the Bay Area is supported by research.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Class-Action-Desegregation-Diversity-Francisco/dp/1517904765\">\u003cem>Class Action: Desegregation and Diversity in San Francisco Schools\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, University of Pennsylvania professor Rand Quinn recounts the history of San Francisco’s efforts to mix up racial diversity in public schools by busing kids out of their neighborhoods.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Private school enrollment surged,” said Quinn, about the desegregation era in the 1970s. “This surge essentially created a permanent shift away from public education that we see today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Busing wasn’t popular among any ethnic group, according to Quinn, but white and Asian families were the most dissatisfied. Some parents believed that racial integration would lower educational standards, and there were robust private schooling options for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Private grade schools in San Francisco \" aria-label=\"Map\" id=\"datawrapper-chart-P50qB\" src=\"https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/P50qB/1/\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" style=\"border: none;\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" data-external=\"1\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“White flight in San Francisco was among the worst in the country — more than 20,000 white students left SFUSD” after the busing program was implemented, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/facing-our-past-changing-our-future-part-ii-five-decades-desegregation-sfusd-1971-today#:~:text=The%20Plan,for%20students%20across%20the%20country.\">reads a district blog post. \u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Why do many local parents choose private school?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the reasons parents choose private schools are complex and highly individual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://sso.nais.org/sso/login?appCode=NAIS&returnUrl=https:%2F%2Fwww.nais.org:443%2Faccount%2Fssosignin\">National surveys\u003c/a> suggest that parents go private because they believe it will give their kids a safe learning environment, nurture their child’s intellectual, social, and emotional skills, and give them a boost in college applications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For example, at Alta Vista, a K–8 private school in San Francisco’s Portola neighborhood, kids benefit from small class sizes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each first-grade class has two teachers attending to 16 students. In comparison, at a nearby public school, a first-grade class could be 22 students with one teacher, per the teacher’s union agreement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During a recent Friday morning math lesson, Alta Vista first graders spread out in small groups all around their classroom. Some played with plastic learning toys while sitting on a carpeted floor with a teacher. Others stood next to each other at a long table, using playing cards and rolling dice with another teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032350\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032350\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mamie Pepper teaches a kindergarten class at Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037216\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037216\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. Right: Students in Mamie Pepper’s kindergarten work on a lesson at Alta Vista School.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the hands-on learning environment comes with a hefty price tag. Tuition here is more than $41,000 a year, although some kids receive financial aid. And Alta Vista, along with other private schools, accepts less than two-thirds of the kids who apply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Parents are willing to jump through the hoops and pony up the cash to get specialized education and attention for their kids, according to USF researcher Julia Roehl. \u003ca href=\"https://repository.usfca.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2677&context=capstone\">San Francisco private school parents gave Roehl many reasons \u003c/a>for keeping their kids out of the public system, including the desire for the “network effect” private school brings, which they believed can set their children up with opportunities for life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Roehl said some parents send their kids to private school for much simpler reasons, like proximity or a desire for community. One parent she interviewed wanted her child to be able to walk to class and have neighbors help with pick-ups.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second-grade teacher Sarah Jashington works with students during class at Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was a very case-by-case basis on what worked best,” Roehl said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For other parents, private school is about faith and morals. In the Bay Area, there are dozens of \u003ca href=\"https://schools.sfarch.org/schools\">religious schools,\u003c/a> and they tend to be less expensive than other private options.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My husband and I still go to church,” said Ada Bajada, a nurse practitioner in South San Francisco who has three kids in Christian schools. Her youngest two attend the same school that Bajada went to as a child. She and her husband, who is an electrician, pay a total of $33,000 a year in school tuition for all three of her kids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We can’t take back the years,” Bajada said. “Whatever we can invest in them to help develop them, secure them as a person inside … is a positive investment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032348\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032348\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ada Bajada at her home in South San Francisco on March 17, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>How the private school system affects public schools\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Economists say there are real consequences of siphoning students away from the public system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you have fewer kids, you expect to get less money,” Tom Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Public school districts receive state money based on how many kids are enrolled. So when parents choose to pull their kids out of public schools, the district loses out on funding.[aside postID=mindshift_47765 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/23/2017/03/integration_slide-73a0e20c5d0a2f5a4039222add76a0fc10921e1c-1180x787.jpg']For example, SFUSD said the 4,000 kids who left San Francisco public schools over the past seven years represent $80 million in per-pupil funding. On average, that’s a loss of $20,000 per kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And San Francisco is not the only public school system grappling with “gut-wrenching decisions” about cuts because of COVID-era enrollment decline, Dee said. Even if there are fewer kids using resources, districts still have fixed costs of running buildings and maintaining staff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The lights still have to be on, the building still has to be heated,” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When families flood out of a public school system, it can kick off a negative cycle of enrollment decline that’s hard to reverse, said Rand Quinn. When funding dwindles, the district may be compelled to close school buildings or end programs. And when cuts make big news, the community’s confidence in the school system erodes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even more families may opt out of the district and send their kids to private schools, especially middle-class families with the means to leave,” Quinn said. “So the burden of under-resourced schools falls disproportionately on working-class and poor families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Public schools don’t get the ‘credit [they] deserve’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Today, more than half of the students at San Francisco public schools are considered lower-income or otherwise at-risk. And total enrollment in the district is about half of what it was in the late 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, public school advocates say there’s a lot to brag about at San Francisco Unified. Students benefit from a number of language programs, from \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/learning/language-pathways-language\">Spanish to Arabic and Vietnamese\u003c/a>, and high schoolers can get ahead \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/learning/curriculum/high-school-curriculum-assessments/dual-enrollment?search_api_fulltext=dual%20enrollment\">by enrolling in college courses\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Vanessa Marerro with Parents for Public Schools of San Francisco said some of the negativity about public schools is more rumor than fact. If parents saw classrooms in action, they’d see all the merits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ask for a tour. You can see what the students are doing. You can see how teachers are attending to them,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kendall Fleming agrees. She has two kids at a public elementary school in the Sunset, and she’s been “wowed” by the teachers, who have shown deep knowledge, versatility and responsiveness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fleming said she feels her kids’ teachers are invested in them. During a recent parent-teacher conference about her kindergartner, the teacher recounted her child’s facial expressions while she was learning to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s exciting as a parent to know that someone not only sees your child … but is rooting for them and guiding them,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>What do we collectively value?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The choice to leave — or to stay — in the public school system is complex and so different parent to parent. But economist Tom Dee said if fewer and fewer people are choosing public schools, over time, the trend can change basic notions about what we collectively value — and are willing to pay for — as a society.[aside postID=mindshift_50777 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/23/2018/03/navigating-public-school-for-creativity_slide-1c13e7cd9067d550921287d4d2f5f0c26475577a-1180x787.jpg']The people who don’t use public schools may say, “This is not a public good that matters to me. Why should I look fondly on income and sales taxes and property taxes that fund it?” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/mindshift/44078/research-shows-diverse-classrooms-improve-learning-for-everyone\">psychology research\u003c/a> suggests that being exposed to racial and economic diversity at school is linked to a number of benefits, including development of critical thinking, building self-confidence and combating bias.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Just having intergroup contact is really important because when you just engage with people, you’re more likely to see them as individualized humans,” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marrero said parents can witness these social bridges in many SFUSD classrooms. “The science said it all, but the heart said more,” she said. “When you get learners in the same classroom that have different backgrounds, it’s just like, no walls at all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> I’m Katrina Schwartz filling in for Olivia Allen-Price. Today on Bay Curious, we’re going to school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>So we’re out here on the schoolyard and we’re lining up for snack. It’s a beautiful San Francisco day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> To private school, Alta Vista, a K-8 school in the Portola neighborhood. Enrollment director Abby Gudich is showing us around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>So we have life size legos. We have an awesome play structure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>There’s a basketball court that’s been covered with soil and transformed into a garden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>See the kids back here picking herbs and making garden tacos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> Math and science are the focus here, through hands-on project based learning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich:\u003c/b> These are our engineering challenge projects and they had to design a tower to withstand wind. And they could only use recycled materials.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Private schools like this one are a popular option in San Francisco. Almost a third of K-12 kids go the private route even though it can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $65,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Michelle Boire:\u003c/b> I just remember thinking this is so many schools, like there are so many schools here\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Bay Curious listener Michelle Boire was surprised when she saw a list of all the private schools in the Bay Area. She grew up on the peninsula in the early 2000s and says she remembers a few big college prep or Catholic schools. But now she says it seems like there are a lot more independent schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Michelle Boire:\u003c/b> My question is, why are there so many private and independent schools in the Bay Area? And I guess I’m curious about the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’m very curious about all sides of why these exist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Today on Bay Curious, we’re on a mission to unravel the complex and personal question of why families choose the schools they do. We’ll talk to private school parents, learn when the shift to private schools started and hear about some of the consequences for public schools and families. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> To figure out why there are so many independent schools in the San Francisco Bay Area, we need to understand why so many parents choose to send their children to private school. Reporter Pauline Bartolone zeroed in on San Francisco where the numbers are highest to find out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Michelle, our question asker, seems to be on to something. When I looked at the state data on enrollment at private schools many Bay Area counties are higher than the state average of 8%. Santa Clara, San Mateo and Marin counties are all at least double. But if you look at San Francisco, the private school numbers are staggering. Thirty percent of K-12 kids go to private school. Thirty percent. So, why are there so many private schools here? Well, because parents want them and there are enough people who can pay for what is often pricey tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> I mean, it’s no secret, right? Public schools are not well funded in California, and that story isn’t getting any better.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Aaron Rothman and his wife have a teenage son, and they live in the Miraloma Park neighborhood of San Francisco. Aaron’s a recruiter in tech, and his wife is in the art business. When they decided to stay in the city to raise their child, Aaron says, they just factored in the cost of private school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman: \u003c/b>We knew that probably fifth grade, you know, towards the end of elementary school, that we’re going to have to be thinking about this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> For elementary school, Aaron’s son went to his neighborhood public school, and had a great experience. But when it came to high school, Aaron says public schools may be good for high achievers or maybe kids with a lot of needs. But he worried his son would fall through the cracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman: \u003c/b>A large amount of the student population that sort of fell in the middle of the bell curve we felt was oftentimes just shuffled through in a way. And we were looking for something a little bit different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>So Aaron and his wife looked for a private high school where their son could get a little more attention and learning support. They chose a private Catholic school near them, even though they’re not religious. Aaron says he likes the variety of classes there, and the college guidance. And the school has so many ways to support students to get good grades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> They almost sort of demand it in a way, whether it’s office hours in the morning, whether it was the opportunity to retake tests, whether it was the opportunity of having upperclassmen that were tutors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The tuition is about thirty thousand a year, so Aaron says they make sacrifices. But he says it’s worth it. Their son, who is a junior now, is getting terrific grades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> He’s thriving. He’s got straight A’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>If you zoom out and look at the bigger picture of how schools are funded, the private school trend is more troubling. Economists say there are real consequences of siphoning students away from the public system. \u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> There’s little doubt that if you have fewer kids, you expect to get less money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Stanford education professor Tom Dee says public school districts receive state money based on how many kids are enrolled. So when parents choose to pull their kids out of public schools, the district loses out on funding. He says he saw the consequences of this when kids fled public schools during COVID.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> Many districts and I know San Francisco is among them are struggling with gut-wrenching decisions about which schools to close.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Tom says school buildings alone cost a lot to run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee: \u003c/b>The lights still have to be on, the building still has to be heated. Also there’s certain staffing you might want in that school in terms of counselors and nurses and administration, etc., that are comparatively fixed even in the face of enrollment decline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Thousands of kids did leave San Francisco schools in the past few years. The district says it gets $80 million less a year now because of it. On average that’s a loss of about twenty thousand per kid. But this private school trend in the city, it’s not a new phenomenon. Private school attendance in San Francisco has been very high for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> It most certainly has roots in the desegregation process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Rand Quinn once worked in San Francisco public schools. That experience inspired him to get a doctorate in education, and to write a book on the history of racial integration in the city during the late 1960s and 70s. In the beginning, kids were bussed out of their neighborhoods as a way to mix up each school’s student population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> When the courts demanded that San Francisco Unified School District desegregate, private school enrollment surged. And that this surge essentially created a permanent shift away from public education that we see today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Busing wasn’t popular among any ethnic group, but research shows, white and Asian families were the most dissatisfied. Some parents believed that racial integration would lower educational standards. Tens of thousands of kids left San Francisco public schools over the next couple of decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> There were robust options both in terms of Catholic schools and private independent schools for San Francisco families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The flood of families opting out of the public system was the beginning of a negative cycle that’s been hard to reverse, Rand says. Kids leave, funding dwindles. The district responds by closing school buildings, maybe ending programs. Then, perhaps, cuts to staff make big news. The thinner the resources are at public schools, the more the community’s confidence in them erodes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> So even more families may opt out of the district and send their kids to private schools, especially middle class families with the means to leave. And so the burden of under-resourced schools falls disproportionately on working class and poor families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Today, more than half of the students at San Francisco public schools are considered low-income or otherwise at risk. And total enrollment in the district is about half of what it was in the late 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> When people enter the public school system, I think they’re worried. I think they’re worried about the size of schools, the size of classrooms. They’re curious if the leadership can handle it. And our experience has just been a definitive yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Kendall Fleming lives in the Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco, and has two kids in the public elementary school there. She raves about their experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> We’ve been totally wowed by the teaching staff, the depth of knowledge, the comfort with the material.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>She says her kids’ teachers are super invested. During a recent parent-teacher conference about her kindergartner, the teacher — who has a class of 22 students — talked about the facial expression of Kendall’s kid while she was learning to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> Teaching reading is very hard. They’re all different levels. They’re slightly different ages. And she knows enough about our child to know when our child is nervous and faking it, and then conquering it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Kendall says she knows her experience may be different from other public school parents. The local school her kids attend has had a good reputation for a long time. Her kids feel safe there, and they’re proud to go to their school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> There is so much to San Francisco schools that I think people may just not know about. And that’s a shame. I’m not sure it gets the credit it deserves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> But still, there are over a hundred private schools in San Francisco alone. At Alta Vista, for example, the K-8 private school you heard in the beginning of the show, they have small class sizes. This first grade class has 16 students, and two teachers. A public school nearby may have 22 kids, and one teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These Alta Vista first graders are learning math but they’re not sitting stiffly in desks. They’re spread out in groups all around the room, learning addition using playing cards, rolling dice, and plastic toys. It may seem like an ideal learning environment. But the trade off is tuition here is more than $41,000 a year. And more than a third of the kids who apply here each year are rejected altogether. For some parents, choosing a school isn’t just about the teaching, it’s also about faith and morals. In the Bay Area, there are dozens of religious schools, and they tend to be less expensive than other private schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sounds of Ada Bajada picking up her kid in the car\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Ada Bajada has three kids in Christian schools. I went with her to pick up her youngest, at the same school Ada attended as a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada:\u003c/b> I grew up in a Christian home, so my husband and I still go to church. We’re still practicing our faith. And so we wanted just that additional support with good fundamentals, morals, and just kind of raising our kids along the same ways that we were raised.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Ada grew up in the outer Mission District in the 80s and 90s where the threat of gang violence was real. She says her parents didn’t have a lot of money. Her mom worked at an insurance agency and her dad made pasta at a restaurant. But they found a way to pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada:\u003c/b> My parents came from El Salvador during the war and so it was different. It was more about keeping us protected, like ultra protected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Ada lives in South San Francisco now. There was a stabbing at the local high school recently. Like her parents, she’s worried about school safety, so she and her husband pay a total of $33,000 a year in school tuition for all three of her kids. She’s a nurse, and her husband is an electrician. And she says it’s 100% worth the money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada: \u003c/b>This is we consider an investment for them. It’s not something that we’ll be able to ever redo, no matter if we’re rich down the line or poor. So whatever we can invest in them to help develop them, secure them as a person inside and just help them so that their adulthood can be fruitful, then I think it’s a positive investment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The choice to leave — or to stay — in the public school system is complex and so different parent to parent. To answer our question asker, Michelle, there are a lot of private schools in the Bay Area because there’s demand for them, and people here can afford to pay. But economist Tom Dee says, over time the trend can change basic notions about what we collectively pay for as a society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> If fewer and fewer people are using public schools, they’re saying this is not a public good that matters to me. Why should I look fondly on income and sales taxes and property taxes that fund it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Tom says, the school a kid goes to also affects how many opportunities they have to connect with people who are different from them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> Just having intergroup contact is really important because when you just engage with people you’re more likely to see them as individualized humans and not through some kind of racialized stereotype.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Parents don’t have control over who their child sits next to at the school lunch table. But their decisions do have an impact on what schooling will look like in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone. If you want to see the private schooling rate in your county, check out our website to see some maps and graphics we’ve put together. That’s at kqed.org. And while you’re there, sign up for our newsletter. In it we answer even more of your questions. Find it at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/baycurious\">kqed.org/baycurious\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. Extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, San Francisco Northern California Local. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Santa Clara, San Mateo and Marin counties all have private school attendance rates that double the state average. But San Francisco has by far the highest rate.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Aaron Rothman and his wife decided to stay in San Francisco to raise their child, the cost of private school was part of their financial equation. That was the way most of their friends with two working parents did school in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s no secret, right? Public schools are not well funded in California, and that story isn’t getting any better,” said Rothman, who lives in Miraloma Park and works as a recruiter in the tech industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rothman’s son had a great experience at their local public elementary school. But when high school was around the corner, Rothman said he felt public schools were a better fit for high achievers or kids with a lot of needs. He worried his son would fall through the cracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The student population that sort of fell in the middle of the bell curve, we felt, was oftentimes just shuffled through in a way. And we were looking for something a little bit different,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rothman’s son goes to a local Catholic high school now — even though they’re not religious — and the family pays roughly $30,000 a year for their son’s tuition. Rothman said they make sacrifices, but it’s worth it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s thriving,” Rothman said. “He’s got straight As.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Bay Area does have high private school rates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A staggering 30% of kindergarten through 12th graders in San Francisco went to private schools during the 2023–24 school year. That’s more than triple California’s statewide average of 8% among kids who aren’t homeschooled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, most of the nine Bay Area counties are higher than the state average when it comes to private schooling, with the exception of Sonoma and Solano. Three Bay Area counties’ private schooling rates are double the statewide average — Santa Clara (16%), San Mateo (17%) and Marin (19%).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Percentage of K-12 students attending private schools (2023-24)\" aria-label=\"Map\" id=\"datawrapper-chart-NUfF7\" src=\"https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/NUfF7/5/\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" style=\"border: none;\" width=\"800\" height=\"687\" data-external=\"1\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area’s private schooling prevalence is notable compared to other large counties in California. Los Angeles’s private schooling rate is 10.4%, Sacramento nearly 7.5%, and Fresno, less than 3%.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are roughly 115 private schools in the city of San Francisco alone, and annual tuition can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $65,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stanford education economist Tom Dee said there could be many reasons why the private schooling rate in San Francisco is so high, including the city’s pockets of affluence, and “concerns about the quality and stability” of public schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dee said San Francisco has historically had a robust Catholic schooling system — there are now 34 Catholic schools in the city — which provide families with a parallel schooling track.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>While San Francisco Unified did lose 4,000 students over the past seven years, the high private schooling rate in the city has persisted for decades. According to California Department of Education data, private schooling in San Francisco was 30% dating all the way back to the 1998–99 school year, and roughly that rate in many of the years since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The large share of private school enrollment in [San Francisco] has been true ever since I started teaching in SFUSD in the mid-1990s,” Commissioner Alexander shared with KQED in an email, adding that he believed the trend started when the district began racially integrating schools back in the early 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s when the big declines in SFUSD enrollment began,” Alexander wrote, “due to wealthier, mostly white families leaving SFUSD to avoid integrated public schools.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Desegregation prompts demand for more private options\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alexander’s hunch about the origins of private schooling in the Bay Area is supported by research.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Class-Action-Desegregation-Diversity-Francisco/dp/1517904765\">\u003cem>Class Action: Desegregation and Diversity in San Francisco Schools\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, University of Pennsylvania professor Rand Quinn recounts the history of San Francisco’s efforts to mix up racial diversity in public schools by busing kids out of their neighborhoods.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Private school enrollment surged,” said Quinn, about the desegregation era in the 1970s. “This surge essentially created a permanent shift away from public education that we see today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Busing wasn’t popular among any ethnic group, according to Quinn, but white and Asian families were the most dissatisfied. Some parents believed that racial integration would lower educational standards, and there were robust private schooling options for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Private grade schools in San Francisco \" aria-label=\"Map\" id=\"datawrapper-chart-P50qB\" src=\"https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/P50qB/1/\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"0\" style=\"border: none;\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" data-external=\"1\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“White flight in San Francisco was among the worst in the country — more than 20,000 white students left SFUSD” after the busing program was implemented, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/facing-our-past-changing-our-future-part-ii-five-decades-desegregation-sfusd-1971-today#:~:text=The%20Plan,for%20students%20across%20the%20country.\">reads a district blog post. \u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Why do many local parents choose private school?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, the reasons parents choose private schools are complex and highly individual.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://sso.nais.org/sso/login?appCode=NAIS&returnUrl=https:%2F%2Fwww.nais.org:443%2Faccount%2Fssosignin\">National surveys\u003c/a> suggest that parents go private because they believe it will give their kids a safe learning environment, nurture their child’s intellectual, social, and emotional skills, and give them a boost in college applications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For example, at Alta Vista, a K–8 private school in San Francisco’s Portola neighborhood, kids benefit from small class sizes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each first-grade class has two teachers attending to 16 students. In comparison, at a nearby public school, a first-grade class could be 22 students with one teacher, per the teacher’s union agreement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During a recent Friday morning math lesson, Alta Vista first graders spread out in small groups all around their classroom. Some played with plastic learning toys while sitting on a carpeted floor with a teacher. Others stood next to each other at a long table, using playing cards and rolling dice with another teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032350\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032350\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mamie Pepper teaches a kindergarten class at Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12037216\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12037216\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/05/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. Right: Students in Mamie Pepper’s kindergarten work on a lesson at Alta Vista School.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But the hands-on learning environment comes with a hefty price tag. Tuition here is more than $41,000 a year, although some kids receive financial aid. And Alta Vista, along with other private schools, accepts less than two-thirds of the kids who apply.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Parents are willing to jump through the hoops and pony up the cash to get specialized education and attention for their kids, according to USF researcher Julia Roehl. \u003ca href=\"https://repository.usfca.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2677&context=capstone\">San Francisco private school parents gave Roehl many reasons \u003c/a>for keeping their kids out of the public system, including the desire for the “network effect” private school brings, which they believed can set their children up with opportunities for life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Roehl said some parents send their kids to private school for much simpler reasons, like proximity or a desire for community. One parent she interviewed wanted her child to be able to walk to class and have neighbors help with pick-ups.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250318-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Second-grade teacher Sarah Jashington works with students during class at Alta Vista School in San Francisco on March 18, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was a very case-by-case basis on what worked best,” Roehl said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For other parents, private school is about faith and morals. In the Bay Area, there are dozens of \u003ca href=\"https://schools.sfarch.org/schools\">religious schools,\u003c/a> and they tend to be less expensive than other private options.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My husband and I still go to church,” said Ada Bajada, a nurse practitioner in South San Francisco who has three kids in Christian schools. Her youngest two attend the same school that Bajada went to as a child. She and her husband, who is an electrician, pay a total of $33,000 a year in school tuition for all three of her kids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We can’t take back the years,” Bajada said. “Whatever we can invest in them to help develop them, secure them as a person inside … is a positive investment.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032348\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032348\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250317-PRIVATESCHOOLRATES-01-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ada Bajada at her home in South San Francisco on March 17, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>How the private school system affects public schools\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Economists say there are real consequences of siphoning students away from the public system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you have fewer kids, you expect to get less money,” Tom Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Public school districts receive state money based on how many kids are enrolled. So when parents choose to pull their kids out of public schools, the district loses out on funding.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>For example, SFUSD said the 4,000 kids who left San Francisco public schools over the past seven years represent $80 million in per-pupil funding. On average, that’s a loss of $20,000 per kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And San Francisco is not the only public school system grappling with “gut-wrenching decisions” about cuts because of COVID-era enrollment decline, Dee said. Even if there are fewer kids using resources, districts still have fixed costs of running buildings and maintaining staff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The lights still have to be on, the building still has to be heated,” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When families flood out of a public school system, it can kick off a negative cycle of enrollment decline that’s hard to reverse, said Rand Quinn. When funding dwindles, the district may be compelled to close school buildings or end programs. And when cuts make big news, the community’s confidence in the school system erodes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even more families may opt out of the district and send their kids to private schools, especially middle-class families with the means to leave,” Quinn said. “So the burden of under-resourced schools falls disproportionately on working-class and poor families.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Public schools don’t get the ‘credit [they] deserve’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Today, more than half of the students at San Francisco public schools are considered lower-income or otherwise at-risk. And total enrollment in the district is about half of what it was in the late 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, public school advocates say there’s a lot to brag about at San Francisco Unified. Students benefit from a number of language programs, from \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/learning/language-pathways-language\">Spanish to Arabic and Vietnamese\u003c/a>, and high schoolers can get ahead \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/learning/curriculum/high-school-curriculum-assessments/dual-enrollment?search_api_fulltext=dual%20enrollment\">by enrolling in college courses\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Vanessa Marerro with Parents for Public Schools of San Francisco said some of the negativity about public schools is more rumor than fact. If parents saw classrooms in action, they’d see all the merits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ask for a tour. You can see what the students are doing. You can see how teachers are attending to them,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kendall Fleming agrees. She has two kids at a public elementary school in the Sunset, and she’s been “wowed” by the teachers, who have shown deep knowledge, versatility and responsiveness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fleming said she feels her kids’ teachers are invested in them. During a recent parent-teacher conference about her kindergartner, the teacher recounted her child’s facial expressions while she was learning to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s exciting as a parent to know that someone not only sees your child … but is rooting for them and guiding them,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>What do we collectively value?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The choice to leave — or to stay — in the public school system is complex and so different parent to parent. But economist Tom Dee said if fewer and fewer people are choosing public schools, over time, the trend can change basic notions about what we collectively value — and are willing to pay for — as a society.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The people who don’t use public schools may say, “This is not a public good that matters to me. Why should I look fondly on income and sales taxes and property taxes that fund it?” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/mindshift/44078/research-shows-diverse-classrooms-improve-learning-for-everyone\">psychology research\u003c/a> suggests that being exposed to racial and economic diversity at school is linked to a number of benefits, including development of critical thinking, building self-confidence and combating bias.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Just having intergroup contact is really important because when you just engage with people, you’re more likely to see them as individualized humans,” Dee said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marrero said parents can witness these social bridges in many SFUSD classrooms. “The science said it all, but the heart said more,” she said. “When you get learners in the same classroom that have different backgrounds, it’s just like, no walls at all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> I’m Katrina Schwartz filling in for Olivia Allen-Price. Today on Bay Curious, we’re going to school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>So we’re out here on the schoolyard and we’re lining up for snack. It’s a beautiful San Francisco day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> To private school, Alta Vista, a K-8 school in the Portola neighborhood. Enrollment director Abby Gudich is showing us around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>So we have life size legos. We have an awesome play structure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>There’s a basketball court that’s been covered with soil and transformed into a garden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich: \u003c/b>See the kids back here picking herbs and making garden tacos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> Math and science are the focus here, through hands-on project based learning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Abby Gudich:\u003c/b> These are our engineering challenge projects and they had to design a tower to withstand wind. And they could only use recycled materials.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Private schools like this one are a popular option in San Francisco. Almost a third of K-12 kids go the private route even though it can cost anywhere from $10,000 to $65,000.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Michelle Boire:\u003c/b> I just remember thinking this is so many schools, like there are so many schools here\u003ci>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Bay Curious listener Michelle Boire was surprised when she saw a list of all the private schools in the Bay Area. She grew up on the peninsula in the early 2000s and says she remembers a few big college prep or Catholic schools. But now she says it seems like there are a lot more independent schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Michelle Boire:\u003c/b> My question is, why are there so many private and independent schools in the Bay Area? And I guess I’m curious about the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’m very curious about all sides of why these exist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>Today on Bay Curious, we’re on a mission to unravel the complex and personal question of why families choose the schools they do. We’ll talk to private school parents, learn when the shift to private schools started and hear about some of the consequences for public schools and families. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> To figure out why there are so many independent schools in the San Francisco Bay Area, we need to understand why so many parents choose to send their children to private school. Reporter Pauline Bartolone zeroed in on San Francisco where the numbers are highest to find out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Michelle, our question asker, seems to be on to something. When I looked at the state data on enrollment at private schools many Bay Area counties are higher than the state average of 8%. Santa Clara, San Mateo and Marin counties are all at least double. But if you look at San Francisco, the private school numbers are staggering. Thirty percent of K-12 kids go to private school. Thirty percent. So, why are there so many private schools here? Well, because parents want them and there are enough people who can pay for what is often pricey tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> I mean, it’s no secret, right? Public schools are not well funded in California, and that story isn’t getting any better.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Aaron Rothman and his wife have a teenage son, and they live in the Miraloma Park neighborhood of San Francisco. Aaron’s a recruiter in tech, and his wife is in the art business. When they decided to stay in the city to raise their child, Aaron says, they just factored in the cost of private school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman: \u003c/b>We knew that probably fifth grade, you know, towards the end of elementary school, that we’re going to have to be thinking about this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> For elementary school, Aaron’s son went to his neighborhood public school, and had a great experience. But when it came to high school, Aaron says public schools may be good for high achievers or maybe kids with a lot of needs. But he worried his son would fall through the cracks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman: \u003c/b>A large amount of the student population that sort of fell in the middle of the bell curve we felt was oftentimes just shuffled through in a way. And we were looking for something a little bit different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>So Aaron and his wife looked for a private high school where their son could get a little more attention and learning support. They chose a private Catholic school near them, even though they’re not religious. Aaron says he likes the variety of classes there, and the college guidance. And the school has so many ways to support students to get good grades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> They almost sort of demand it in a way, whether it’s office hours in the morning, whether it was the opportunity to retake tests, whether it was the opportunity of having upperclassmen that were tutors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The tuition is about thirty thousand a year, so Aaron says they make sacrifices. But he says it’s worth it. Their son, who is a junior now, is getting terrific grades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Aaron Rothman:\u003c/b> He’s thriving. He’s got straight A’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>If you zoom out and look at the bigger picture of how schools are funded, the private school trend is more troubling. Economists say there are real consequences of siphoning students away from the public system. \u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> There’s little doubt that if you have fewer kids, you expect to get less money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Stanford education professor Tom Dee says public school districts receive state money based on how many kids are enrolled. So when parents choose to pull their kids out of public schools, the district loses out on funding. He says he saw the consequences of this when kids fled public schools during COVID.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> Many districts and I know San Francisco is among them are struggling with gut-wrenching decisions about which schools to close.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Tom says school buildings alone cost a lot to run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee: \u003c/b>The lights still have to be on, the building still has to be heated. Also there’s certain staffing you might want in that school in terms of counselors and nurses and administration, etc., that are comparatively fixed even in the face of enrollment decline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Thousands of kids did leave San Francisco schools in the past few years. The district says it gets $80 million less a year now because of it. On average that’s a loss of about twenty thousand per kid. But this private school trend in the city, it’s not a new phenomenon. Private school attendance in San Francisco has been very high for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> It most certainly has roots in the desegregation process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Rand Quinn once worked in San Francisco public schools. That experience inspired him to get a doctorate in education, and to write a book on the history of racial integration in the city during the late 1960s and 70s. In the beginning, kids were bussed out of their neighborhoods as a way to mix up each school’s student population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> When the courts demanded that San Francisco Unified School District desegregate, private school enrollment surged. And that this surge essentially created a permanent shift away from public education that we see today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Busing wasn’t popular among any ethnic group, but research shows, white and Asian families were the most dissatisfied. Some parents believed that racial integration would lower educational standards. Tens of thousands of kids left San Francisco public schools over the next couple of decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> There were robust options both in terms of Catholic schools and private independent schools for San Francisco families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The flood of families opting out of the public system was the beginning of a negative cycle that’s been hard to reverse, Rand says. Kids leave, funding dwindles. The district responds by closing school buildings, maybe ending programs. Then, perhaps, cuts to staff make big news. The thinner the resources are at public schools, the more the community’s confidence in them erodes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Rand Quinn:\u003c/b> So even more families may opt out of the district and send their kids to private schools, especially middle class families with the means to leave. And so the burden of under-resourced schools falls disproportionately on working class and poor families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Today, more than half of the students at San Francisco public schools are considered low-income or otherwise at risk. And total enrollment in the district is about half of what it was in the late 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> When people enter the public school system, I think they’re worried. I think they’re worried about the size of schools, the size of classrooms. They’re curious if the leadership can handle it. And our experience has just been a definitive yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Kendall Fleming lives in the Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco, and has two kids in the public elementary school there. She raves about their experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> We’ve been totally wowed by the teaching staff, the depth of knowledge, the comfort with the material.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>She says her kids’ teachers are super invested. During a recent parent-teacher conference about her kindergartner, the teacher — who has a class of 22 students — talked about the facial expression of Kendall’s kid while she was learning to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> Teaching reading is very hard. They’re all different levels. They’re slightly different ages. And she knows enough about our child to know when our child is nervous and faking it, and then conquering it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Kendall says she knows her experience may be different from other public school parents. The local school her kids attend has had a good reputation for a long time. Her kids feel safe there, and they’re proud to go to their school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kendall Fleming:\u003c/b> There is so much to San Francisco schools that I think people may just not know about. And that’s a shame. I’m not sure it gets the credit it deserves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> But still, there are over a hundred private schools in San Francisco alone. At Alta Vista, for example, the K-8 private school you heard in the beginning of the show, they have small class sizes. This first grade class has 16 students, and two teachers. A public school nearby may have 22 kids, and one teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These Alta Vista first graders are learning math but they’re not sitting stiffly in desks. They’re spread out in groups all around the room, learning addition using playing cards, rolling dice, and plastic toys. It may seem like an ideal learning environment. But the trade off is tuition here is more than $41,000 a year. And more than a third of the kids who apply here each year are rejected altogether. For some parents, choosing a school isn’t just about the teaching, it’s also about faith and morals. In the Bay Area, there are dozens of religious schools, and they tend to be less expensive than other private schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Sounds of Ada Bajada picking up her kid in the car\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Ada Bajada has three kids in Christian schools. I went with her to pick up her youngest, at the same school Ada attended as a child.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada:\u003c/b> I grew up in a Christian home, so my husband and I still go to church. We’re still practicing our faith. And so we wanted just that additional support with good fundamentals, morals, and just kind of raising our kids along the same ways that we were raised.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/b> Ada grew up in the outer Mission District in the 80s and 90s where the threat of gang violence was real. She says her parents didn’t have a lot of money. Her mom worked at an insurance agency and her dad made pasta at a restaurant. But they found a way to pay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada:\u003c/b> My parents came from El Salvador during the war and so it was different. It was more about keeping us protected, like ultra protected.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Ada lives in South San Francisco now. There was a stabbing at the local high school recently. Like her parents, she’s worried about school safety, so she and her husband pay a total of $33,000 a year in school tuition for all three of her kids. She’s a nurse, and her husband is an electrician. And she says it’s 100% worth the money.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ada Bajada: \u003c/b>This is we consider an investment for them. It’s not something that we’ll be able to ever redo, no matter if we’re rich down the line or poor. So whatever we can invest in them to help develop them, secure them as a person inside and just help them so that their adulthood can be fruitful, then I think it’s a positive investment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>The choice to leave — or to stay — in the public school system is complex and so different parent to parent. To answer our question asker, Michelle, there are a lot of private schools in the Bay Area because there’s demand for them, and people here can afford to pay. But economist Tom Dee says, over time the trend can change basic notions about what we collectively pay for as a society.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> If fewer and fewer people are using public schools, they’re saying this is not a public good that matters to me. Why should I look fondly on income and sales taxes and property taxes that fund it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Tom says, the school a kid goes to also affects how many opportunities they have to connect with people who are different from them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tom Dee:\u003c/b> Just having intergroup contact is really important because when you just engage with people you’re more likely to see them as individualized humans and not through some kind of racialized stereotype.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/b>Parents don’t have control over who their child sits next to at the school lunch table. But their decisions do have an impact on what schooling will look like in the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b> That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone. If you want to see the private schooling rate in your county, check out our website to see some maps and graphics we’ve put together. That’s at kqed.org. And while you’re there, sign up for our newsletter. In it we answer even more of your questions. Find it at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/baycurious\">kqed.org/baycurious\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale, and me, Katrina Schwartz. Extra support from Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED. Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, San Francisco Northern California Local. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-south-bay-is-all-stevens-creek-this-and-stevens-creek-that-so-who-is-this-stevens-anyway",
"title": "The South Bay Is All 'Stevens Creek' This and 'Stevens Creek' That. So Who Is This Stevens Anyway?",
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"headTitle": "The South Bay Is All ‘Stevens Creek’ This and ‘Stevens Creek’ That. So Who Is This Stevens Anyway? | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pete Smoot’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the \u003ca href=\"https://mghydro.com/watersheds/shared/2F3905.html\">Stevens Creek watershed\u003c/a>, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. Smoot used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named \u003cem>Stevens\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her?” he asked Bay Curious. “The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them, and we’re failing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The man behind the name\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To start with, the Stevens of Stevens Creek et al, spelled his name thusly: “Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S,” said Dan White, whose book \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Cactus-Eaters-Almost-Myself-Pacific/dp/0061376930/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.wrqoBTLcmOIKou_MuTbqEn6TBcBxgx4WyhiI5olXcUA.ceIYpRu8lYS1_frb3-X8DlVzP90YD1QD5ClCfdjoy9c&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+cactus+eaters+dan+white&qid=1743802935&sr=8-1\">\u003cem>The Cactus Eaters\u003c/em>\u003c/a> includes a passage on Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley,” White told me while walking through Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino, along with Smoot, our question asker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035351\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035351\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Longtime Bay Curious fan Pete Smoot — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — grew up in Massachusetts but has lived in South San José for over 30 years, working as a software developer. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So who was Elisha Stephens, and what was his proudest accomplishment, the one that got so many local place names named after him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was captain of a party of pioneers that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass. Yes, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11940118/the-real-story-of-the-donner-party\">THAT Donner Pass\u003c/a>, nine miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ATE each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Donner Party, it turns out, was not the first group in a wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4yztTzfLpE\">Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was\u003c/a>. They started with 50 people in eleven wagons and arrived in California with two more people, thanks to childbirths along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all,” White said. “In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s not to say the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in that \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/young-man-alone-snowbound-in-the-sierra-nevada-1844.htm\">the hardest part\u003c/a> of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. (The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035352\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035352\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Author and amateur historian Dan White — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — has written about Elisha Stephens. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In any case, it was a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QodvJY8hC-c\">miserable, hard slog\u003c/a>, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At one point, there was a granite ledge, a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. Instead of giving up, they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to the most detailed account — the party was careful about sticking together in one big group until mid-November, when they were knee-deep in snow in the mountains. The leadership of the party — so presumably, Stephens — decided to split up the group. This would leave three young men behind and have them guard the wagons in the same rough location where the Donner Party met their fateful end. The rest of the group, including all the women and children, continued westward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No diaries of the Stephens Party journey west are known to survive, but a couple of participants dictated their memories of what happened decades later, including one account published in 1888, \u003cem>The Diary of Moses Schallenberger. \u003c/em>Schallenberger was among the men that stayed behind. He was 17 at the time, and he barely survived that winter in a cabin he helped build himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, “We thought the snow would soon melt, but we were doomed to disappointment. A week passed, and instead of any snow going off, more came. At last, we were compelled to kill our cows, for the snow was so deep that they could not get around to eat. They were nothing but skin and bones, but we killed the poor things to keep them from starving to death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Schallenberger nearly starved to death. When a member of the advance party was sent back on snowshoes with provisions, Schallenberger was found trying to eat boiled leather.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The promised land of California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. A decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1587px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1587\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg 1587w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-800x1008.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1020x1285.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-160x202.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1219x1536.jpg 1219w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1587px) 100vw, 1587px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This is the only known photo of Elisha Stephens, believed to have been taken in San José in 1860. \u003ccite>(Source unknown)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He bought the land through legal means, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises, major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. Which might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors, often with a fair bit of bitterness involved. So, locals did know of his exploits but largely tried to steer clear of a dinner invite from Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3umO6_D8cg\">rattlesnake was on the menu\u003c/a>,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer, and also “a real grump,” White said. Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized” — and this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him,” said White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One day he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield,” said White. A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035353\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1334px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035353\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1334\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg 1334w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-800x1199.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1020x1529.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1025x1536.jpg 1025w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1334px) 100vw, 1334px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This plaque dedicated to Elisha Stevens by the California-Nevada chapter of the Oregon California Trail Association, Cupertino Historical Society, City of Cupertino, and the Mountain Charlie Chapter 1850 E Clampus Vitus, sits embedded in an unassuming concrete and stone pedestal located in the parking lot of the Blackberry Farm golf course. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The \u003ca href=\"https://www.unioncemeterybakersfield.com/services/elisha-stevens-blazed-the-trail-to-california/\">cemetery\u003c/a> even lost his internment records,” White continued. “But in 2009, somehow, some historical minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean that’s a lot of forgetting, and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>And what accounts for\u003c/strong>\u003cstrong> the \u003c/strong>\u003cstrong>misspelling of ‘Stevens Creek’? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“This is just my pet theory, okay?” White said. “Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience that a one-time bureaucratic error can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11706248/40-years-after-assassinations-assessing-the-legacies-of-harvey-milk-and-george-moscone\">Dan White infamous for killing\u003c/a> San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Stevens Creek Dam and Reservoir, located about 2 miles southwest of Cupertino. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That got a rise out of our question-asker, Pete Smoot. “My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks,” said Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032757\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032757\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The gravestone for Elisha Stephens in the Historic Union Cemetery in Bakersfield on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Was Smoot surprised to learn of the real man behind all things named “Stevens Creek” in the South Bay? Not really. “This area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The naming of things is a serious matter, something we’ve all been paying a bit more attention to in recent years. Who do we memorialize and why? If the honorees don’t merit a mention in school books, who even remembers them after the last living person to know them dies? I’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since we got this question from longtime listener Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her? \u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pete’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the Stevens Creek watershed, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. He used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named Stevens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them. And we’re failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This week, we’re digging into the all-but-forgotten history of Elisha Stephens. It’s a tale full of adventure that will take us over the high Sierra a few years before gold was found in this state. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so Pete wants to know why so many things in Cupertino, Mountain View and Sunnyvale are called “Stevens Creek.” KQED’s Rachael Myrow did some digging, and here’s what she found …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>You know how most searches start on the Internet? Well, the first thing I realized upon looking for Elisha Stephens was there are a lot of different spellings of his name. And the right one is not the one that’s on all the place names and street signs. Author Dan White — whose book “The Cactus Eaters” includes a passage on Stephens — explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S. He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley, which is kind of bizarre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>I met Dan, along with Pete, our question asker, at Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino to discuss the story of a South Carolina born man who was, by his own account, under-appreciated during his lifetime — and also, by a lot of other accounts, deserved to be remembered better than he has been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Essentially, he was a part of an immigrant party that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That Donner Pass? The one 9 miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ate each other? Yes. Fun fact: The Donner Party was not the first wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was! They began in what was then the Iowa Territory. Stephens joined when they stopped in St. Joseph, Missouri. Reflecting their collective respect for his leadership skills, the 50 people in eleven wagons elected him captain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The rub is that this entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all. In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Which is not to say that the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in the hardest part of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.” In any case, it was a miserable, hard slog, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> At one point, there was a granite ledge that they got towards, and there was a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. And instead of giving up, what they did was they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. And a decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through legal means at the time, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is … complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But back to opening that mountain path to the Pacific …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> It became a huge, big deal. It was part of the incursion into California. The 49ers used it, other immigrants used it, and a railroad and a freeway would both breach that same pass. Millions more people going from that same mountain notch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. That might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors. They knew about his most famous exploit. But at the time, he was most famous or infamous, for his favorite dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, rattlesnake was on the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer. There’s only one known photo of him, and he looks like what you’d expect a 19th-century pioneer to look like: from his hat to his utility knife hanging from his big, big belt. He was tall and skinny, with deep, sunken eyes and cheekbones, a scraggly, snow white beard that extended down to his rough and ready Western cravat, and a piercing, direct stare that was common in studio photos of the time, because if you smiled the whole thing was likely to come out blurry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>He became a real grump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized.” And this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad uh route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Awwww. It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> One day, he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The cemetery even lost his internment records. But in 2009, somehow, some historical-minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean, that’s a lot of forgetting and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>So how did a guy most everyone forgot get so many South Bay place names named after him? We’ll never know for sure, but Stephens wouldn’t be the only faded-glory pioneer with big land holdings to get memorialized in this particular way in California. What is unusual is the misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> This is just my pet theory, okay? Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience, that a one-time bureaucratic error, can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the Dan White infamous for killing San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That gets a rise out of our question asker, Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Is this story that you’re hearing, is it what you expected to hear? Are there surprises in it for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> I didn’t really have an expectation. It makes perfect sense, and I’m not surprised to hear it. I mean, this area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over, as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Rachael Myrow, Senior Editor of KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Pete Smoot for asking the question this week. It was chosen by you in a public voting round at BayCuriuos.org. There’s a new voting round up now, and we’re asking you to consider questions about tree frogs, metal music in the Bay Area, and “the San Francisco Twins” … a well-known pair of actresses. Head to BayCurious.org and cast your vote for which story you’d like to hear on this podcast next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. As you may have heard, funding for public media is at risk right now. You can help KQED continue to offer high-quality, fact-checked news and information by becoming a member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. And thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pete Smoot’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the \u003ca href=\"https://mghydro.com/watersheds/shared/2F3905.html\">Stevens Creek watershed\u003c/a>, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. Smoot used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named \u003cem>Stevens\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her?” he asked Bay Curious. “The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them, and we’re failing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The man behind the name\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To start with, the Stevens of Stevens Creek et al, spelled his name thusly: “Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S,” said Dan White, whose book \u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Cactus-Eaters-Almost-Myself-Pacific/dp/0061376930/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.wrqoBTLcmOIKou_MuTbqEn6TBcBxgx4WyhiI5olXcUA.ceIYpRu8lYS1_frb3-X8DlVzP90YD1QD5ClCfdjoy9c&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+cactus+eaters+dan+white&qid=1743802935&sr=8-1\">\u003cem>The Cactus Eaters\u003c/em>\u003c/a> includes a passage on Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley,” White told me while walking through Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino, along with Smoot, our question asker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035351\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035351\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-01-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Longtime Bay Curious fan Pete Smoot — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — grew up in Massachusetts but has lived in South San José for over 30 years, working as a software developer. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>So who was Elisha Stephens, and what was his proudest accomplishment, the one that got so many local place names named after him?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was captain of a party of pioneers that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass. Yes, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11940118/the-real-story-of-the-donner-party\">THAT Donner Pass\u003c/a>, nine miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ATE each other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Donner Party, it turns out, was not the first group in a wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4yztTzfLpE\">Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was\u003c/a>. They started with 50 people in eleven wagons and arrived in California with two more people, thanks to childbirths along the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all,” White said. “In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s not to say the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in that \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/young-man-alone-snowbound-in-the-sierra-nevada-1844.htm\">the hardest part\u003c/a> of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. (The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035352\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035352\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Author and amateur historian Dan White — pictured here at the Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino — has written about Elisha Stephens. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In any case, it was a \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QodvJY8hC-c\">miserable, hard slog\u003c/a>, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At one point, there was a granite ledge, a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. Instead of giving up, they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to the most detailed account — the party was careful about sticking together in one big group until mid-November, when they were knee-deep in snow in the mountains. The leadership of the party — so presumably, Stephens — decided to split up the group. This would leave three young men behind and have them guard the wagons in the same rough location where the Donner Party met their fateful end. The rest of the group, including all the women and children, continued westward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No diaries of the Stephens Party journey west are known to survive, but a couple of participants dictated their memories of what happened decades later, including one account published in 1888, \u003cem>The Diary of Moses Schallenberger. \u003c/em>Schallenberger was among the men that stayed behind. He was 17 at the time, and he barely survived that winter in a cabin he helped build himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At first, “We thought the snow would soon melt, but we were doomed to disappointment. A week passed, and instead of any snow going off, more came. At last, we were compelled to kill our cows, for the snow was so deep that they could not get around to eat. They were nothing but skin and bones, but we killed the poor things to keep them from starving to death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Schallenberger nearly starved to death. When a member of the advance party was sent back on snowshoes with provisions, Schallenberger was found trying to eat boiled leather.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The promised land of California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. A decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1587px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1587\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2.jpg 1587w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-800x1008.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1020x1285.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-160x202.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-05-KQED-2-1219x1536.jpg 1219w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1587px) 100vw, 1587px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This is the only known photo of Elisha Stephens, believed to have been taken in San José in 1860. \u003ccite>(Source unknown)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He bought the land through legal means, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises, major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. Which might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors, often with a fair bit of bitterness involved. So, locals did know of his exploits but largely tried to steer clear of a dinner invite from Stephens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3umO6_D8cg\">rattlesnake was on the menu\u003c/a>,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer, and also “a real grump,” White said. Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized” — and this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him,” said White.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One day he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield,” said White. A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035353\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1334px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035353\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1334\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED.jpg 1334w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-800x1199.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1020x1529.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-03-KQED-1025x1536.jpg 1025w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1334px) 100vw, 1334px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This plaque dedicated to Elisha Stevens by the California-Nevada chapter of the Oregon California Trail Association, Cupertino Historical Society, City of Cupertino, and the Mountain Charlie Chapter 1850 E Clampus Vitus, sits embedded in an unassuming concrete and stone pedestal located in the parking lot of the Blackberry Farm golf course. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The \u003ca href=\"https://www.unioncemeterybakersfield.com/services/elisha-stevens-blazed-the-trail-to-california/\">cemetery\u003c/a> even lost his internment records,” White continued. “But in 2009, somehow, some historical minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean that’s a lot of forgetting, and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>And what accounts for\u003c/strong>\u003cstrong> the \u003c/strong>\u003cstrong>misspelling of ‘Stevens Creek’? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“This is just my pet theory, okay?” White said. “Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience that a one-time bureaucratic error can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11706248/40-years-after-assassinations-assessing-the-legacies-of-harvey-milk-and-george-moscone\">Dan White infamous for killing\u003c/a> San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035354\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035354\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/250410-ELISHA-STEPHENS-04-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Stevens Creek Dam and Reservoir, located about 2 miles southwest of Cupertino. \u003ccite>(Rachael Myrow/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right,” White said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That got a rise out of our question-asker, Pete Smoot. “My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks,” said Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032757\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032757\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250324-ELISHA-STEPHENS-MD-02-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The gravestone for Elisha Stephens in the Historic Union Cemetery in Bakersfield on March 23, 2025. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Was Smoot surprised to learn of the real man behind all things named “Stevens Creek” in the South Bay? Not really. “This area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them,” Smoot said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The naming of things is a serious matter, something we’ve all been paying a bit more attention to in recent years. Who do we memorialize and why? If the honorees don’t merit a mention in school books, who even remembers them after the last living person to know them dies? I’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since we got this question from longtime listener Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>Who is Stevens, and why is Stevens Creek Boulevard in San José and in Cupertino named after him or her? \u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pete’s driven along Stevens Creek Boulevard. He’s hiked in the Stevens Creek watershed, which tumbles down from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the San Francisco Bay. He used to ride his bike around the Stevens Creek Reservoir. And he couldn’t help but notice a lot of things in the South Bay named after somebody named Stevens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot: \u003c/strong>The whole reason to name something after someone is to memorialize them. And we’re failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This week, we’re digging into the all-but-forgotten history of Elisha Stephens. It’s a tale full of adventure that will take us over the high Sierra a few years before gold was found in this state. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so Pete wants to know why so many things in Cupertino, Mountain View and Sunnyvale are called “Stevens Creek.” KQED’s Rachael Myrow did some digging, and here’s what she found …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>You know how most searches start on the Internet? Well, the first thing I realized upon looking for Elisha Stephens was there are a lot of different spellings of his name. And the right one is not the one that’s on all the place names and street signs. Author Dan White — whose book “The Cactus Eaters” includes a passage on Stephens — explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens\u003cem>,\u003c/em> spelled E-L-I-S-H-A, last name Stephens, S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S. He’s commemorated, but misspelled egregiously, in so many landmarks around Silicon Valley, which is kind of bizarre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>I met Dan, along with Pete, our question asker, at Stevens Creek County Park in Cupertino to discuss the story of a South Carolina born man who was, by his own account, under-appreciated during his lifetime — and also, by a lot of other accounts, deserved to be remembered better than he has been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003cstrong>\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Essentially, he was a part of an immigrant party that opened up what is now known as Donner Pass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That Donner Pass? The one 9 miles west of Truckee, where desperate pioneers ate each other? Yes. Fun fact: The Donner Party was not the first wagon train to cross this particular mountain pass. The Stephens-Townsend-Murphy Party was! They began in what was then the Iowa Territory. Stephens joined when they stopped in St. Joseph, Missouri. Reflecting their collective respect for his leadership skills, the 50 people in eleven wagons elected him captain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The rub is that this entire overland party did not lose a single man, woman or child at all. In fact, it increased by two because of procreation. They came down from the mountain with more people than they started out with, and and yet, who is the pass named after? The Donners, who made a colossal mess of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Which is not to say that the Stephens Party had an easy time of it when they crossed the pass in 1844. Enough beaver trappers and such had made the journey to California that people back East knew going in the hardest part of the journey would be at the end of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A Northern Paiute tribal leader who helped thousands of white people in the 1840s and ’50s cross the barren Great Basin of Nevada suggested the party follow a river up to its source in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The guide would often shout, “Tro-kay!” meaning “Everything is alright!” and that’s how a number of things, including the river, were later named “Truckee.” In any case, it was a miserable, hard slog, especially for the pregnant women and the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> At one point, there was a granite ledge that they got towards, and there was a 10-foot rocky barrier blocking the way. And instead of giving up, what they did was they unpacked everything from the wagons, and they hoisted each one up that ledge, and they used a rope pulley chained to the backs of the oxen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Once Stephens and the rest of the party made it down to the promised land of California, easy living lay ahead. As a young man, Stephens was a blacksmith and trapper. Now in his 40s, he settled in what we call Cupertino, buying 160 acres of land originally part of the Spanish/Mexican land grant known as Rancho San Antonio. Stephens named his patch of paradise Blackberry Farm. And a decade later, he essentially doubled his land holdings with more acres in Mountain View.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Through legal means at the time, but the broader context of land ownership in California during the mid-19th century is … complicated, given that Americans took California from Mexico, which took it from indigenous peoples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But back to opening that mountain path to the Pacific …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> It became a huge, big deal. It was part of the incursion into California. The 49ers used it, other immigrants used it, and a railroad and a freeway would both breach that same pass. Millions more people going from that same mountain notch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Possibly because nobody in the Stephens party died, White surmises major newspapers of the day didn’t cover its arrival. That might explain why Stephens felt he had to toot his own horn to South Bay neighbors. They knew about his most famous exploit. But at the time, he was most famous or infamous, for his favorite dish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> He was well-known for making an exceptional ragout that was made out of the fat and juicy rattlesnakes that he caught in the brush around Cupertino. And some people avoided his house because they knew that if we went to see him, rattlesnake was on the menu.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Elisha Stephens became a beekeeper and a chicken farmer. There’s only one known photo of him, and he looks like what you’d expect a 19th-century pioneer to look like: from his hat to his utility knife hanging from his big, big belt. He was tall and skinny, with deep, sunken eyes and cheekbones, a scraggly, snow white beard that extended down to his rough and ready Western cravat, and a piercing, direct stare that was common in studio photos of the time, because if you smiled the whole thing was likely to come out blurry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White: \u003c/strong>He became a real grump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Never married. Never had any kids that we know about. In 1862, he moved to Bakersfield, complaining that the South Bay had become “too durn civilized.” And this was before the sun-baked suburbia we’re all familiar with today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> Very tellingly, in the late 1860s, after the Central Pacific Railroad uh route across the mountain pass was finished, I think it would have been classy for somebody to invite him to the ribbon cutting ceremony, but they didn’t. Nobody thought to invite him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Awwww. It gets worse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> One day, he ends up with a stroke. He’s paralyzed in the local hospital. This is when he’s living in Kern County. Then he drops dead. He was initially in a potter’s field in Bakersfield.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>A potter’s field is a burial ground for poor, unidentified or unclaimed individuals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> The cemetery even lost his internment records. But in 2009, somehow, some historical-minded people found his grave. So at least they found his grave. But I mean, that’s a lot of forgetting and a lot of obscurity, even during one’s lifetime, let alone afterwards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>So how did a guy most everyone forgot get so many South Bay place names named after him? We’ll never know for sure, but Stephens wouldn’t be the only faded-glory pioneer with big land holdings to get memorialized in this particular way in California. What is unusual is the misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> This is just my pet theory, okay? Now, there is an author named George R. Stewart, who wrote some really popular books about the Donners, about Donner Summit, about all those explorers, and over and over again, he misspelled Stephens’ last name S-T-E-V-E-N-S. I mean, this stings me on a personal level because I can also tell you from first-hand experience, that a one-time bureaucratic error, can be sustained over time in the most egregious ways. For example, my name — my byline — is Dan White, W-H-I-T-E, which is a horrific misspelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Because many people, especially locally, would think of the Dan White infamous for killing San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone in 1978.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan White:\u003c/strong> I descend from Ukrainian and Russian and German Jews, and the last name should be spelled as it was spelled for hundreds and hundreds of years, W-E-I-T. It’s a mistake on my father’s birth certificate that was never corrected. So I’ve got that in common with Stephens. Our last names are butchered, and also with consequences, right? I think what people often say is say whatever you want about me, but spell my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>That gets a rise out of our question asker, Pete Smoot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> My family name was a misspelling from about 400 years ago. It gave us a very unique last name. So now, when I see someone with the same name, I can assume that they’re related to me. But yeah, I’m with Dan. Call me anything you want, but at least get my name right.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Much of the terrain that attracted Stephens to settle here during the 1840s is still parkland, full of oak trees, wild turkeys, bobcats, burrowing owls — and in the springtime, dotted with periwinkle and Indian paintbrush flowers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> The valley floor itself is all suburbia and companies. Yeah, but get up into the hills, and the hills are beautiful. They’re filled with trees and wildlife and babbling brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Is this story that you’re hearing, is it what you expected to hear? Are there surprises in it for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pete Smoot:\u003c/strong> I didn’t really have an expectation. It makes perfect sense, and I’m not surprised to hear it. I mean, this area was filled with people who migrated from the East Coast. I’m one of them. When there was a land rush in the 1840s, people would have grabbed chunks of land. Some people would have risen to prominence, and they get a bunch of stuff named after them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Rachael Myrow: \u003c/strong>Not to get too philosophical on you, but it does seem like Elisha Stephens’ story is emblematic of so much of California history writ large. There are these layers and layers of human stories of travail and triumph that just get paved over, as new generations come through and forge their own paths in the Golden State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Rachael Myrow, Senior Editor of KQED’s Silicon Valley Desk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Pete Smoot for asking the question this week. It was chosen by you in a public voting round at BayCuriuos.org. There’s a new voting round up now, and we’re asking you to consider questions about tree frogs, metal music in the Bay Area, and “the San Francisco Twins” … a well-known pair of actresses. Head to BayCurious.org and cast your vote for which story you’d like to hear on this podcast next.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. As you may have heard, funding for public media is at risk right now. You can help KQED continue to offer high-quality, fact-checked news and information by becoming a member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. And thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "inside-the-sailing-ships-that-carried-thousands-of-san-francisco-workers-to-alaska",
"title": "How Canned Salmon Became Big Business in Gold Rush San Francisco",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Walk along San Francisco Bay near Ghirardelli Square, and it’s hard not to be intrigued by the three masts jutting into the sky at Hyde Street Pier. It looks like a pirate ship straight out of \u003cem>Pirates of the Caribbean\u003c/em>. But the 301-foot-long square-sailed ship isn’t a Hollywood prop, it’s a piece of history from a time when San Francisco was the largest and most consequential seaport on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Known as the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the ship is part of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/index.htm\">San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park, \u003c/a>and it’s one of the best physical reminders of a once-booming San Francisco industry — salmon canning. In the early 20th century, the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was part of the Alaska Packers’ Association fleet. It was the salmon canning industry’s largest and most influential company, and their headquarters were in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, ships like the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> sailed to remote, wild southeastern Alaska, full of all the gear, material, food and people required to run a salmon cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The start of fish canning in California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Two brothers, William and George Hume, moved out to California in the 1850s to seek their Gold Rush fortunes. They were from a fishing family in Maine and put those skills to good use when they arrived in the Golden State. They caught salmon in the Sacramento River. This was before widespread access to electric refrigeration, so the brothers sold the salmon either fresh or preserved in salt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034261\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034261\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013.jpg 1333w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Balclutha/Star of Alaska in the San Francisco port on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their friend, Andrew Hapgood, was a tinsmith and had experimented with canning oysters back in Maine. When he followed the Humes out to California, the three men joined forces to open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalhistoriclandmarks/first-pacific-coast-salmon-cannery-site.htm\">first West Coast salmon cannery\u003c/a> in 1864.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After two years, they decided to move the cannery north to the Columbia River,” said James Chiao, an amateur historian who has spent years researching the \u003ca href=\"https://chinesecannerylaborers.home.blog/\">history of salmon canning\u003c/a>. Originally from Taiwan, Chiao worked in the Alaska canneries in the 1970s to earn money to pay his college tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chiao said that back in the 1860s, the fishing was good in Oregon. Each of the three business partners soon opened his own cannery along the Columbia. In 1970, George Hume, who was white, hired 12 Chinese laborers to work in his cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Hume] found their work satisfactory, better than his other workers,” Chiao said. “It became the success formula. If you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology — how to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese, Chiao said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the rapid growth of the salmon canning industry was hard on the salmon populations in Oregon. Soon, the cannery operators had their sights set on \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/alaska-cannery-cultural-landscapes.htm\">even bigger fishing grounds — Alaska\u003c/a>. *The Humes and several other big canning companies banded together to form the Alaska Packers’ Association, which operated out of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035022\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1300px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035022\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1300\" height=\"814\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg 1300w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-800x501.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-1020x639.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1300px) 100vw, 1300px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">General locations of past and present canneries, based on descriptions provided in ‘Alaska Salmon Cannery Chronology, 1878 to 1950’ by Lewis MacDonald. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Immigrant workforce suffers poor conditions\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The salmon canning industry exploded once it moved to Alaska. \u003ca href=\"https://alaskahistoricalsociety.org/history-in-a-can-2/\">According to the Alaska Historic Society\u003c/a>, Alaskan canneries shipped 36,000 cases of canned salmon in 1883. Just eight years later, that number had increased to 789,347 cases. It was one of the largest industries in Alaska at the time and had a huge economic and political impact on the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce that much salmon, the companies had to ship thousands of workers to Alaska and haul all the tin, machinery, food and other goods required to sustain a workforce in a remote location for several months. San Francisco was the first big shipping hub for the industry and later, Portland and Seattle would also become important departure points.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the sailing ship anchored in San Francisco Bay, is set up as a museum to showcase what the conditions would have been like for cannery workers traveling to the salmon fields. The boat was strictly divided based on class and occupation. The captain’s quarters were at the back of the ship to limit the rock and sway. His quarters had sumptuous furnishings designed specifically for a ship, made of exotic woods and decked out with plush cushions. He had his own kitchen pantry, bedroom, bathroom and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034996\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Decorative woodwork in the captain’s quarters on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Right: A portrait of Inda Francis Durkee, the daughter of a captain of the Balclutha/Star of Alaska, who was born aboard the ship in 1899 on a voyage from India to San Francisco. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On the same level, but closer to the middle of the ship, were the sleeping quarters of the fishermen. The space is fairly large, with portholes that let in light and air along the sides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men living and working in the Bay Area,” said Sabrina Oliveros, a park ranger at the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said there were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. They also doubled as sailors on the ship for the voyage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Down below, on the tween deck and accessible by a narrow ladder, were the sleeping quarters for the cannery workers, commonly known as the “Chinese Gang” because in the early days of the industry, almost all the workers were Chinese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska,” Oliveros said. “And they came back down on the same ship.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">National Park Service ranger Sabrina Oliveros poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034985\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Part of the ‘Big Cargo’ exhibition on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their quarters were small and cramped. Bunks were stacked three high, each without enough room to sit up. There was no natural light or fresh air. Men would smoke and gamble by lamplight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick,” wrote Max Stern in a serialized account of going undercover as a cannery worker in 1922.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stern was a white newspaper reporter who had heard of the squalid conditions for cannery workers and set out to shine a light on them. He describes buying himself a job by promising to purchase a prescribed set of exorbitantly priced goods from an outfitter, most of which were subpar or nonexistent. His account is riddled with the many ways that labor contractors and cannery owners took advantage of the cannery workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An illustration of life for Chinese workers from the 19th Century on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Chiao, of Fremont, poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Chiao, originally from Taiwan, worked in a salmon cannery in the 1970s. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was sailing, it was not uncommon for the journey north to take close to 40 days. And when they arrived, Stern writes the conditions on land weren’t much better than those he experienced on the ship. He describes bunkhouses with walls so thin that an icy wind whipped through the boards while water lapped the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He and the rest of the cannery workers first made the wooden crates and tin cans that the fish would be stored in. Then, when the fishermen started bringing in large quantities of fish, they worked long hours butchering, cleaning, chopping and canning the salmon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first 40 years of the industry, all this work was done manually and the Chinese workers gained a reputation for their fast and skilled butchering. The best could clean and butcher three fish per minute. But in 1903, things started to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035023\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1111px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035023\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1111\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png 1111w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-800x589.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-1020x751.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1111px) 100vw, 1111px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Butchering salmon in a canning establishment in Astoria, Oregon. \u003ccite>(Robert N. Dennis collection via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Salmon catch on the floor of an unidentified cannery, Alaska. Right: Sailing vessel ‘Star of Greenland’ at the dock of the Alaska Packers’ Association cannery, Wrangell, Alaska, in August 1918. \u003ccite>(John Nathan Cobb via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This machine is a central artifact of this exhibit,” Park Ranger Oliveros said while gesturing at an\u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226\"> 8-foot-tall iron contraption\u003c/a> on board the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>. “It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The advent of mechanization coincided with a shortage of Chinese workers due to the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1866-1898/chinese-immigration\">Chinese Exclusion Act, which was passed in 1882\u003c/a>. Already, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/asiancanneryworkers.htm\">canneries had been hiring more Japanese and Filipino workers\u003c/a>, but the salmon butchering machine signaled the end of a majority-Chinese cannery workforce. By the 1920s and ’30s, there were very few left.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Decline of the salmon canning industry\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cannery workers fought for and won the right to unionize in the 1930s. With unionization, there were fewer opportunities for labor contractors and other middlemen to take advantage of workers. Wages and conditions improved, but decades of overfishing meant salmon populations were on the decline. The peak of the Alaska salmon canning industry was in 1936.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canned salmon was an important provision for soldiers during World War II, but after the war, consumer tastes started to shift towards canned tuna and frozen fish. \u003ca href=\"https://www.conservationgateway.org/ConservationByGeography/NorthAmerica/UnitedStates/alaska/seak/era/cfm/Documents/9.5_SalmonIndustry.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Native Alaskans were fighting for more sovereignty and better fishery protections (PDF)\u003c/a>, making it more difficult for canneries to operate with impunity as they had done for much of the industry’s early history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canneries still exist in Alaska today, and much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaskan waters. However, it’s far more common now for the fish to be flash-frozen and shipped around the world to be eaten fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The cannery workers who pioneered the salmon canning industry have been largely forgotten, but historians like James Chiao and park rangers like Sabrina Oliveros at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park are working to preserve their legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034263\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034263\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Downtown San Francisco, seen from on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*A prior version of this story stated that Andrew Hapgood was part of forming the Alaska Packers Association. He was not. We regret this error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And you’re listening to Bay Curious. Nowadays, if you’re eating fish out of a can, it’s likely tuna. But in the early 20th century, canned salmon was far more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound: \u003c/strong>Whitneys the quality canned salmon from Alaska’s world famous waters. Serve Whitney’s salmon in baked seafood salad, salmon loaf, or molded salmon ring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This advertisement for Alaskan canned salmon is from the 1950s, but the salmon canning industry has roots in California, starting in the mid-1800s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound:\u003c/strong> Whitneys, whitneys, whitneys … For a tasty dish with zing, a can of whitneys is the thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The biggest canning companies were headquartered in San Francisco. And seasonal workers boarded ships in San Francisco to get to those Alaskan waters. There’s even a piece of this history still floating out in the San Francisco Bay!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> It’s not exactly a pirate ship, but if you let us tell you the story, there were some pretty nefarious things going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today on Bay Curious, we trace the salmon connections between San Francisco and Alaska … and learn about the early workers who made the industry possible. Batten down the hatches; there are rough seas ahead! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor message\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Starting in the mid-1800s, Salmon canneries were big business along the West Coast, stretching all the way up to Alaska. San Francisco played an outsized role in the industry — and especially in providing the workers who did the tough, dirty, low-paid work in the canneries. Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz starts us off in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Imagine a stretch of marshy ground in an isolated bay. A nondescript factory built on a pier hunkers near the shore surrounded by a few low bunkhouses and a smattering of cabins. Patches of melting snow dot the ground. It’s austere. Lonely. Beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>Such a remote place. No radio. No newspaper, no TV. So you’re totally cut off from the outside world. My name is James Chiao, and I am an immigrant. I was born in Taiwan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and his brother Philip worked at the salmon canneries in Alaska in the 1970s for several summers during college. James stood next to a machine that gutted and cleaned the salmon. A more seasoned co-worker stood next to him, pulling the eggs out of the fish. James took care of any that slipped by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: T\u003c/strong>he salmon, the fish would come in on a conveyor belt passing, I’d say maybe 60 to 80 fish per minute. So they were flying by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James would stand there clad in tall rubber boots and full rain gear, water flushing the fish carcasses down a conveyor belt, sometimes working a 16- or 18-hour shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>It was noisy. There’s water and blood everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> He says it was mind-numbing, repetitive work, but he didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace from studying. The scenery in Alaska was fantastic. And the money was good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>When I was attending University of Washington, the tuition was probably over $1,000 a year. And I was able to make in two months enough money to pay my tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James remembers that time fondly. It was a unique experience, but not his real life. He went on to become an electrical engineer. And when he retired a few years ago, he began reflecting on his life, thinking back to those summers in Alaska in the ’70s. And he started to do a little research about the salmon canning industry, which dates back to the 1860s. He was interested to learn he wasn’t the only immigrant to find themselves canning salmon in Alaska. Far from it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>I think we should go back, you know, to the Hume brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Brothers William and George Hume were fishermen originally from Maine. They moved to California, like so many others, to seek their fortune. When they arrived, they started catching and selling salmon. Now, these were the days before electric refrigeration was widely available … so they sold the salmon either fresh caught or preserved in salt. So when their buddy from Maine, Andrew Hapgood, moved out to California and brought materials to can and preserve fish with him, they knew they had a good business idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In 1864, they founded the first salmon cannery in on the Sacramento River.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> It didn’t take them long to realize runoff from mining was killing the salmon. So they moved their operations to the Columbia River in Oregon. The Humes, who were white, hired 12 Chinese workers to do the canning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>He found their work satisfactory. Better than his other workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Transcontinental Railroad was almost complete, and Chinese laborers who had immigrated to the U.S. were looking for more work. The Hume brothers hired them through the same contractors who found workers for the railroads and paid them a similarly low wage. Other salmon cannery owners along the Columbia copied the Humes business model.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Almost like it become the success formula. Look, if you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology. How to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says by 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese. Pretty soon, the Humes, and most of the other cannery owners, moved their operations to Alaska, where the really big salmon runs were. San Francisco was the biggest city on the West Coast. Everything flowed in and out of its seaport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> The components are all in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The fishermen and cannery workers. All the supplies and provisions needed for the trip. And, of course, the vessels that carried it all to Alaskan waters. The Hume brothers’ company joined up with several other big canneries to form the largest salmon canning company, the Alaska Packers Association. It was headquartered in San Francisco and shipped canned salmon all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of creaking of ship\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> We are we are right now around the main deck of the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, right under the main mast. My name is Sabrina Oliveras, my title is Park Ranger Interpretation Exhibits and I work at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and I meet Sabrina on board the Balclutha … a sailing ship built in 1886 … and known as the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> when it sailed as a cannery vessel. It’s one of the best physical reminders of the salmon canning trade still floating in the Bay. It was on a ship like this that salmon cannery workers would begin their long journeys. The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was strictly divided based on social class and occupation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras (giving tour): \u003c/strong>So right now, we are where we call the Captain’s Saloon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The captain’s quarters are at the far back of the ship, where the rock and sway of the ocean is less noticeable. He would have had a private bedroom, bathroom, pantry and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This also was where a captain would hold office while in port. So you know he’d have to like entertain other merchants or captains or ship owners and all that, which is why it’s nice, and it has a skylight, detailed glasswork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Beautiful hardwood floors, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Yeah, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Towards the middle of the ship, but still on the same level, were the fisherman’s quarters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men, you know, living and working in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> There were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers for the Alaska Packers’ Association. They also acted as the sailors on the month-long journey up to Alaska.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There’s probably like over 10 portholes that you can open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Portholes mean there was sunlight and fresh air. Once the ship arrived in Alaska, the fishermen would be in charge of catching the salmon. But the canneries also needed people to butcher, chop and can the fish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska, and they came back down on the same ship. They would have lived below decks in the area. We now call the tween deck\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Walking downstairs\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> To get there, we take the stairs, thoughtfully installed by the park for visitors. Back in the day, the cannery workers would have used a ladder only about a foot-and-a-half wide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>We are looking into an area where on either side of us, there are three levels of bunks. This is a representation of what they called at the time the Oriental Quarters or in some sources they call it Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The space is cramped. The bunks short, with not even enough room to sit up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> To me, this is amazing. I’ve never thought of someone stay here in this kind of condition for over four weeks, right? Takes about 30 days, 33 days to travel from San Francisco to Bristol Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says when he went to work in the Alaska canneries, he could travel there in one day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>This place is so hot. And also, there’s no ventilation. And there’s no electricity. OK, we have a light here. So it was lit by candles or lamps. It’s just totally, you know, it’s not a very good experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Unlike the fishermen, who were mostly white, the cannery workers were not employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. Instead, they were hired by independent labor contractors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The APA really just let the labor contractors do what they want, essentially, which is why they had so much power and there was so much opportunity to exploit. Because the APA would just say, you set the terms, we just want so-and-so amount of crates delivered at the end of it all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> At least two primary sources describe being forced to pay for passage on the ship, for specific clothes that often weren’t necessary, and for bedding as a condition of employment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>A lot of them were, you know, they spent so much money on their clothing, on outfit, and then there’s also gambling, and also they have to pay some of the canned food. So, usually, by the time they come back to San Francisco, all those money were subtracted off of their wages. So they have very little left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Sometimes, workers would end the season in debt to the labor contractor, ensuring they’d come back for the following year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And so these ships, laden with men and supplies, would sail out from San Francisco and make their way to remote, wild southwestern Alaska every summer. One of the most detailed first-person narratives comes from Max Stern, a white newspaperman who went undercover on assignment as part of the so-called “Chinese Gang” in 1922. It didn’t take long for him to feel the pain of being in the lowest social class on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern:\u003c/strong> I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> After arriving in Bristol Bay, the first task in the cannery was to turn the metal they brought with them into cans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern: \u003c/strong>My job was testing cans. I would stand over a little tank of hot water, place a finished can into the basket, and with a foot lever immerse it. If there were any leaks, bubbles would appear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, decades before Stern was on his undercover mission, skilled Chinese butchers would spend long hours butchering, cleaning, cutting and processing the fish. Sabrina says a skilled worker could remove the fins, head, tail and entrails of three fish per minute. But around 1903, times were beginning to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This machine, it is a central artifact of this exhibit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Back on the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, Park Ranger Sabrina shows us an\u003ca href=\"https://www.loc.gov/resource/hhh.ak0330.sheet/?sp=5\"> 8-foot tall\u003c/a>, massive \u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226&searchQuery=Alaska&Stevens&Lumber_Co_&Puget_Sound_Navigation_Co_&modules%5B0%5D=item&modules%5B1%5D=collections&modules%5B2%5D=library&pageNum=5\">iron contraption\u003c/a>. Now called a “salmon butchering machine,” it was known by a more racist name when it was invented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute. So as you can imagine, like this machine was welcomed by the industry for a variety of reasons, one of which was, you know, he needed to keep producing more and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Cannery owners were eager to replace the workers who had made the industry possible. James Chiao again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jim Chiao\u003c/strong>: Even in their advertisements, they said they wanted to replace all the Chinese Butchers. And by the 1920s and ’30s, it did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> By this time, the industry was feeling the effects of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Chinese labor was harder to find, and many roles were replaced by other Asian immigrants. First, Japanese … and later Filipino folks. Farmworkers in California would finish up the spring harvest and head to San Francisco to hop on a salmon boat bound for Alaska. When the summer fishing season was over, they’d return to California for the fall harvest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Which is why eventually, in the 1930s, when they started unionizing, it wasn’t just a cannery workers union; it was a canary workers and farm laborers union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (during interview): \u003c/strong>Wow, because it was the same folks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Once the union came in, there was less opportunity for labor contractors to exploit workers, and conditions at the canneries improved. James Chiao says he benefited from those changes by the time he arrived in Alaska in the ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> In general, I thought it was it was okay. It was decent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaska, but canning isn’t the big business it used to be. The Alaska Packers Association eventually became part of the Del Monte conglomerate, which sold its last canneries in the early 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Oh yeah, there’s a huge change in how they process the salmon, how they just freeze the salmon and ship it to the supermarkets directly. So now, the canned salmon is no longer really something that we are familiar or used to. That’s a big change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says even in the ’70s, when he was working in Alaska, cannery workers rarely tried the product.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In the mess hall, we never got to eat salmon. So, many years later, I went to the grocery store and tried canned salmon. My goodness, it was no good! (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> These days — few signs remain of the once booming salmon canning industry in San Francisco. Most of the companies have been sold off or moved elsewhere. But for James and the National Park Staff overseeing the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> — the hard work and sacrifice of the workers who once kept them running hasn’t been forgotten.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music end\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz. Head to BayCurious.org to see photos from our trip to the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, plus archival photos from San Francisco’s salmon canning history. We’ll drop a link in our show notes, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love episodes like this one … they open my eyes to something about the Bay Area that … frankly, I had no idea about. That’s one of our big goals here at Bay Curious, actually. And if you think we’re the mark, please consider leaving us a rating or a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever else you might listen. Kind words keep us going and help other potential listeners find our program. It only takes moment, and we really appreciate it. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Alana Walker, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hope you have a wonderful week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Walk along San Francisco Bay near Ghirardelli Square, and it’s hard not to be intrigued by the three masts jutting into the sky at Hyde Street Pier. It looks like a pirate ship straight out of \u003cem>Pirates of the Caribbean\u003c/em>. But the 301-foot-long square-sailed ship isn’t a Hollywood prop, it’s a piece of history from a time when San Francisco was the largest and most consequential seaport on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Known as the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the ship is part of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/index.htm\">San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park, \u003c/a>and it’s one of the best physical reminders of a once-booming San Francisco industry — salmon canning. In the early 20th century, the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was part of the Alaska Packers’ Association fleet. It was the salmon canning industry’s largest and most influential company, and their headquarters were in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every summer, ships like the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> sailed to remote, wild southeastern Alaska, full of all the gear, material, food and people required to run a salmon cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The start of fish canning in California\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Two brothers, William and George Hume, moved out to California in the 1850s to seek their Gold Rush fortunes. They were from a fishing family in Maine and put those skills to good use when they arrived in the Golden State. They caught salmon in the Sacramento River. This was before widespread access to electric refrigeration, so the brothers sold the salmon either fresh or preserved in salt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034261\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034261\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013-1024x1536.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00013.jpg 1333w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Balclutha/Star of Alaska in the San Francisco port on March 21, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their friend, Andrew Hapgood, was a tinsmith and had experimented with canning oysters back in Maine. When he followed the Humes out to California, the three men joined forces to open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalhistoriclandmarks/first-pacific-coast-salmon-cannery-site.htm\">first West Coast salmon cannery\u003c/a> in 1864.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“After two years, they decided to move the cannery north to the Columbia River,” said James Chiao, an amateur historian who has spent years researching the \u003ca href=\"https://chinesecannerylaborers.home.blog/\">history of salmon canning\u003c/a>. Originally from Taiwan, Chiao worked in the Alaska canneries in the 1970s to earn money to pay his college tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chiao said that back in the 1860s, the fishing was good in Oregon. Each of the three business partners soon opened his own cannery along the Columbia. In 1970, George Hume, who was white, hired 12 Chinese laborers to work in his cannery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Hume] found their work satisfactory, better than his other workers,” Chiao said. “It became the success formula. If you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology — how to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese, Chiao said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the rapid growth of the salmon canning industry was hard on the salmon populations in Oregon. Soon, the cannery operators had their sights set on \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/alaska-cannery-cultural-landscapes.htm\">even bigger fishing grounds — Alaska\u003c/a>. *The Humes and several other big canning companies banded together to form the Alaska Packers’ Association, which operated out of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035022\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1300px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035022\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1300\" height=\"814\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map.jpg 1300w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-800x501.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-1020x639.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Cannery-Project-map-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1300px) 100vw, 1300px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">General locations of past and present canneries, based on descriptions provided in ‘Alaska Salmon Cannery Chronology, 1878 to 1950’ by Lewis MacDonald. \u003ccite>(National Park Service)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Immigrant workforce suffers poor conditions\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The salmon canning industry exploded once it moved to Alaska. \u003ca href=\"https://alaskahistoricalsociety.org/history-in-a-can-2/\">According to the Alaska Historic Society\u003c/a>, Alaskan canneries shipped 36,000 cases of canned salmon in 1883. Just eight years later, that number had increased to 789,347 cases. It was one of the largest industries in Alaska at the time and had a huge economic and political impact on the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To produce that much salmon, the companies had to ship thousands of workers to Alaska and haul all the tin, machinery, food and other goods required to sustain a workforce in a remote location for several months. San Francisco was the first big shipping hub for the industry and later, Portland and Seattle would also become important departure points.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, the sailing ship anchored in San Francisco Bay, is set up as a museum to showcase what the conditions would have been like for cannery workers traveling to the salmon fields. The boat was strictly divided based on class and occupation. The captain’s quarters were at the back of the ship to limit the rock and sway. His quarters had sumptuous furnishings designed specifically for a ship, made of exotic woods and decked out with plush cushions. He had his own kitchen pantry, bedroom, bathroom and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034996\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034996\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Decorative woodwork in the captain’s quarters on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Right: A portrait of Inda Francis Durkee, the daughter of a captain of the Balclutha/Star of Alaska, who was born aboard the ship in 1899 on a voyage from India to San Francisco. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On the same level, but closer to the middle of the ship, were the sleeping quarters of the fishermen. The space is fairly large, with portholes that let in light and air along the sides.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men living and working in the Bay Area,” said Sabrina Oliveros, a park ranger at the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She said there were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. They also doubled as sailors on the ship for the voyage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Down below, on the tween deck and accessible by a narrow ladder, were the sleeping quarters for the cannery workers, commonly known as the “Chinese Gang” because in the early days of the industry, almost all the workers were Chinese.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska,” Oliveros said. “And they came back down on the same ship.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034271\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034271\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00175-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">National Park Service ranger Sabrina Oliveros poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034985\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034985\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Part of the ‘Big Cargo’ exhibition on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Their quarters were small and cramped. Bunks were stacked three high, each without enough room to sit up. There was no natural light or fresh air. Men would smoke and gamble by lamplight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick,” wrote Max Stern in a serialized account of going undercover as a cannery worker in 1922.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Stern was a white newspaper reporter who had heard of the squalid conditions for cannery workers and set out to shine a light on them. He describes buying himself a job by promising to purchase a prescribed set of exorbitantly priced goods from an outfitter, most of which were subpar or nonexistent. His account is riddled with the many ways that labor contractors and cannery owners took advantage of the cannery workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034267\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034267\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00128-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An illustration of life for Chinese workers from the 19th Century on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034268\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034268\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00130-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Chiao, of Fremont, poses for a portrait on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. Chiao, originally from Taiwan, worked in a salmon cannery in the 1970s. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was sailing, it was not uncommon for the journey north to take close to 40 days. And when they arrived, Stern writes the conditions on land weren’t much better than those he experienced on the ship. He describes bunkhouses with walls so thin that an icy wind whipped through the boards while water lapped the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He and the rest of the cannery workers first made the wooden crates and tin cans that the fish would be stored in. Then, when the fishermen started bringing in large quantities of fish, they worked long hours butchering, cleaning, chopping and canning the salmon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the first 40 years of the industry, all this work was done manually and the Chinese workers gained a reputation for their fast and skilled butchering. The best could clean and butcher three fish per minute. But in 1903, things started to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035023\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1111px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035023\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1111\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped.png 1111w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-800x589.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-1020x751.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Butchering_salmon_cropped-160x118.png 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1111px) 100vw, 1111px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Butchering salmon in a canning establishment in Astoria, Oregon. \u003ccite>(Robert N. Dennis collection via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12035024\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12035024\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-5-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Salmon catch on the floor of an unidentified cannery, Alaska. Right: Sailing vessel ‘Star of Greenland’ at the dock of the Alaska Packers’ Association cannery, Wrangell, Alaska, in August 1918. \u003ccite>(John Nathan Cobb via Wikipedia)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This machine is a central artifact of this exhibit,” Park Ranger Oliveros said while gesturing at an\u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226\"> 8-foot-tall iron contraption\u003c/a> on board the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>. “It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The advent of mechanization coincided with a shortage of Chinese workers due to the \u003ca href=\"https://history.state.gov/milestones/1866-1898/chinese-immigration\">Chinese Exclusion Act, which was passed in 1882\u003c/a>. Already, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/asiancanneryworkers.htm\">canneries had been hiring more Japanese and Filipino workers\u003c/a>, but the salmon butchering machine signaled the end of a majority-Chinese cannery workforce. By the 1920s and ’30s, there were very few left.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Decline of the salmon canning industry\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Cannery workers fought for and won the right to unionize in the 1930s. With unionization, there were fewer opportunities for labor contractors and other middlemen to take advantage of workers. Wages and conditions improved, but decades of overfishing meant salmon populations were on the decline. The peak of the Alaska salmon canning industry was in 1936.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canned salmon was an important provision for soldiers during World War II, but after the war, consumer tastes started to shift towards canned tuna and frozen fish. \u003ca href=\"https://www.conservationgateway.org/ConservationByGeography/NorthAmerica/UnitedStates/alaska/seak/era/cfm/Documents/9.5_SalmonIndustry.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Native Alaskans were fighting for more sovereignty and better fishery protections (PDF)\u003c/a>, making it more difficult for canneries to operate with impunity as they had done for much of the industry’s early history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Canneries still exist in Alaska today, and much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaskan waters. However, it’s far more common now for the fish to be flash-frozen and shipped around the world to be eaten fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The cannery workers who pioneered the salmon canning industry have been largely forgotten, but historians like James Chiao and park rangers like Sabrina Oliveros at the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park are working to preserve their legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034263\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12034263\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1536x1025.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/20250321_Balclutha_DMB_00039-1920x1281.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Downtown San Francisco, seen from on board the Balclutha/Star of Alaska. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>*A prior version of this story stated that Andrew Hapgood was part of forming the Alaska Packers Association. He was not. We regret this error.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And you’re listening to Bay Curious. Nowadays, if you’re eating fish out of a can, it’s likely tuna. But in the early 20th century, canned salmon was far more popular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound: \u003c/strong>Whitneys the quality canned salmon from Alaska’s world famous waters. Serve Whitney’s salmon in baked seafood salad, salmon loaf, or molded salmon ring.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This advertisement for Alaskan canned salmon is from the 1950s, but the salmon canning industry has roots in California, starting in the mid-1800s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Advertisement Sound:\u003c/strong> Whitneys, whitneys, whitneys … For a tasty dish with zing, a can of whitneys is the thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>The biggest canning companies were headquartered in San Francisco. And seasonal workers boarded ships in San Francisco to get to those Alaskan waters. There’s even a piece of this history still floating out in the San Francisco Bay!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> It’s not exactly a pirate ship, but if you let us tell you the story, there were some pretty nefarious things going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today on Bay Curious, we trace the salmon connections between San Francisco and Alaska … and learn about the early workers who made the industry possible. Batten down the hatches; there are rough seas ahead! Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor message\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Starting in the mid-1800s, Salmon canneries were big business along the West Coast, stretching all the way up to Alaska. San Francisco played an outsized role in the industry — and especially in providing the workers who did the tough, dirty, low-paid work in the canneries. Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz starts us off in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Imagine a stretch of marshy ground in an isolated bay. A nondescript factory built on a pier hunkers near the shore surrounded by a few low bunkhouses and a smattering of cabins. Patches of melting snow dot the ground. It’s austere. Lonely. Beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>Such a remote place. No radio. No newspaper, no TV. So you’re totally cut off from the outside world. My name is James Chiao, and I am an immigrant. I was born in Taiwan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and his brother Philip worked at the salmon canneries in Alaska in the 1970s for several summers during college. James stood next to a machine that gutted and cleaned the salmon. A more seasoned co-worker stood next to him, pulling the eggs out of the fish. James took care of any that slipped by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: T\u003c/strong>he salmon, the fish would come in on a conveyor belt passing, I’d say maybe 60 to 80 fish per minute. So they were flying by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James would stand there clad in tall rubber boots and full rain gear, water flushing the fish carcasses down a conveyor belt, sometimes working a 16- or 18-hour shift.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>It was noisy. There’s water and blood everywhere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> He says it was mind-numbing, repetitive work, but he didn’t mind. It was a nice change of pace from studying. The scenery in Alaska was fantastic. And the money was good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>When I was attending University of Washington, the tuition was probably over $1,000 a year. And I was able to make in two months enough money to pay my tuition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James remembers that time fondly. It was a unique experience, but not his real life. He went on to become an electrical engineer. And when he retired a few years ago, he began reflecting on his life, thinking back to those summers in Alaska in the ’70s. And he started to do a little research about the salmon canning industry, which dates back to the 1860s. He was interested to learn he wasn’t the only immigrant to find themselves canning salmon in Alaska. Far from it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>I think we should go back, you know, to the Hume brothers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Brothers William and George Hume were fishermen originally from Maine. They moved to California, like so many others, to seek their fortune. When they arrived, they started catching and selling salmon. Now, these were the days before electric refrigeration was widely available … so they sold the salmon either fresh caught or preserved in salt. So when their buddy from Maine, Andrew Hapgood, moved out to California and brought materials to can and preserve fish with him, they knew they had a good business idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In 1864, they founded the first salmon cannery in on the Sacramento River.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> It didn’t take them long to realize runoff from mining was killing the salmon. So they moved their operations to the Columbia River in Oregon. The Humes, who were white, hired 12 Chinese workers to do the canning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>He found their work satisfactory. Better than his other workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The Transcontinental Railroad was almost complete, and Chinese laborers who had immigrated to the U.S. were looking for more work. The Hume brothers hired them through the same contractors who found workers for the railroads and paid them a similarly low wage. Other salmon cannery owners along the Columbia copied the Humes business model.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Almost like it become the success formula. Look, if you want to be successful, you need to have the capital. You need to have the technology. How to make the cans. And number three, you need Chinese workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says by 1874, there were 13 canneries along the Columbia River and 95% of the cannery workers were Chinese. Pretty soon, the Humes, and most of the other cannery owners, moved their operations to Alaska, where the really big salmon runs were. San Francisco was the biggest city on the West Coast. Everything flowed in and out of its seaport.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> The components are all in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The fishermen and cannery workers. All the supplies and provisions needed for the trip. And, of course, the vessels that carried it all to Alaskan waters. The Hume brothers’ company joined up with several other big canneries to form the largest salmon canning company, the Alaska Packers Association. It was headquartered in San Francisco and shipped canned salmon all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of creaking of ship\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras:\u003c/strong> We are we are right now around the main deck of the \u003cem>Balclutha/Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, right under the main mast. My name is Sabrina Oliveras, my title is Park Ranger Interpretation Exhibits and I work at San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James and I meet Sabrina on board the Balclutha … a sailing ship built in 1886 … and known as the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> when it sailed as a cannery vessel. It’s one of the best physical reminders of the salmon canning trade still floating in the Bay. It was on a ship like this that salmon cannery workers would begin their long journeys. The \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> was strictly divided based on social class and occupation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras (giving tour): \u003c/strong>So right now, we are where we call the Captain’s Saloon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The captain’s quarters are at the far back of the ship, where the rock and sway of the ocean is less noticeable. He would have had a private bedroom, bathroom, pantry and sitting room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This also was where a captain would hold office while in port. So you know he’d have to like entertain other merchants or captains or ship owners and all that, which is why it’s nice, and it has a skylight, detailed glasswork.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Beautiful hardwood floors, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Yeah, plush seats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Towards the middle of the ship, but still on the same level, were the fisherman’s quarters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The fishermen for \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> would have mostly been Italian or Scandinavian men, you know, living and working in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> There were about 80 of them, and they were unionized workers for the Alaska Packers’ Association. They also acted as the sailors on the month-long journey up to Alaska.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There’s probably like over 10 portholes that you can open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Portholes mean there was sunlight and fresh air. Once the ship arrived in Alaska, the fishermen would be in charge of catching the salmon. But the canneries also needed people to butcher, chop and can the fish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>There would have been anywhere from 100 to 300 cannery workers who were transported on ships like this going up to Alaska, and they came back down on the same ship. They would have lived below decks in the area. We now call the tween deck\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Walking downstairs\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> To get there, we take the stairs, thoughtfully installed by the park for visitors. Back in the day, the cannery workers would have used a ladder only about a foot-and-a-half wide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>We are looking into an area where on either side of us, there are three levels of bunks. This is a representation of what they called at the time the Oriental Quarters or in some sources they call it Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> The space is cramped. The bunks short, with not even enough room to sit up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> To me, this is amazing. I’ve never thought of someone stay here in this kind of condition for over four weeks, right? Takes about 30 days, 33 days to travel from San Francisco to Bristol Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says when he went to work in the Alaska canneries, he could travel there in one day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>This place is so hot. And also, there’s no ventilation. And there’s no electricity. OK, we have a light here. So it was lit by candles or lamps. It’s just totally, you know, it’s not a very good experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Unlike the fishermen, who were mostly white, the cannery workers were not employed directly by the Alaska Packers Association. Instead, they were hired by independent labor contractors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>The APA really just let the labor contractors do what they want, essentially, which is why they had so much power and there was so much opportunity to exploit. Because the APA would just say, you set the terms, we just want so-and-so amount of crates delivered at the end of it all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> At least two primary sources describe being forced to pay for passage on the ship, for specific clothes that often weren’t necessary, and for bedding as a condition of employment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>A lot of them were, you know, they spent so much money on their clothing, on outfit, and then there’s also gambling, and also they have to pay some of the canned food. So, usually, by the time they come back to San Francisco, all those money were subtracted off of their wages. So they have very little left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Sometimes, workers would end the season in debt to the labor contractor, ensuring they’d come back for the following year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> And so these ships, laden with men and supplies, would sail out from San Francisco and make their way to remote, wild southwestern Alaska every summer. One of the most detailed first-person narratives comes from Max Stern, a white newspaperman who went undercover on assignment as part of the so-called “Chinese Gang” in 1922. It didn’t take long for him to feel the pain of being in the lowest social class on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern:\u003c/strong> I was sweating from the heat of my companions, I was seasick, I was vermin-covered, and I must admit, I was downright homesick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> After arriving in Bristol Bay, the first task in the cannery was to turn the metal they brought with them into cans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice reading the writings of Max Stern: \u003c/strong>My job was testing cans. I would stand over a little tank of hot water, place a finished can into the basket, and with a foot lever immerse it. If there were any leaks, bubbles would appear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, decades before Stern was on his undercover mission, skilled Chinese butchers would spend long hours butchering, cleaning, cutting and processing the fish. Sabrina says a skilled worker could remove the fins, head, tail and entrails of three fish per minute. But around 1903, times were beginning to change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>This machine, it is a central artifact of this exhibit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Back on the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, Park Ranger Sabrina shows us an\u003ca href=\"https://www.loc.gov/resource/hhh.ak0330.sheet/?sp=5\"> 8-foot tall\u003c/a>, massive \u003ca href=\"https://mohai.org/collections-and-research/collections-search/?primaryKey=1970.4992&moduleName=collections&recordId=1226&searchQuery=Alaska&Stevens&Lumber_Co_&Puget_Sound_Navigation_Co_&modules%5B0%5D=item&modules%5B1%5D=collections&modules%5B2%5D=library&pageNum=5\">iron contraption\u003c/a>. Now called a “salmon butchering machine,” it was known by a more racist name when it was invented.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>It was designed to start replacing human labor. The earliest versions of the salmon butchering machine could have done like 50, 60 fish in a minute. So as you can imagine, like this machine was welcomed by the industry for a variety of reasons, one of which was, you know, he needed to keep producing more and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Cannery owners were eager to replace the workers who had made the industry possible. James Chiao again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jim Chiao\u003c/strong>: Even in their advertisements, they said they wanted to replace all the Chinese Butchers. And by the 1920s and ’30s, it did.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> By this time, the industry was feeling the effects of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Chinese labor was harder to find, and many roles were replaced by other Asian immigrants. First, Japanese … and later Filipino folks. Farmworkers in California would finish up the spring harvest and head to San Francisco to hop on a salmon boat bound for Alaska. When the summer fishing season was over, they’d return to California for the fall harvest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sabrina Oliveras: \u003c/strong>Which is why eventually, in the 1930s, when they started unionizing, it wasn’t just a cannery workers union; it was a canary workers and farm laborers union.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz (during interview): \u003c/strong>Wow, because it was the same folks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Once the union came in, there was less opportunity for labor contractors to exploit workers, and conditions at the canneries improved. James Chiao says he benefited from those changes by the time he arrived in Alaska in the ’70s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> In general, I thought it was it was okay. It was decent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Much of the salmon we eat is still caught in Alaska, but canning isn’t the big business it used to be. The Alaska Packers Association eventually became part of the Del Monte conglomerate, which sold its last canneries in the early 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao:\u003c/strong> Oh yeah, there’s a huge change in how they process the salmon, how they just freeze the salmon and ship it to the supermarkets directly. So now, the canned salmon is no longer really something that we are familiar or used to. That’s a big change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> James says even in the ’70s, when he was working in Alaska, cannery workers rarely tried the product.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Chiao: \u003c/strong>In the mess hall, we never got to eat salmon. So, many years later, I went to the grocery store and tried canned salmon. My goodness, it was no good! (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> These days — few signs remain of the once booming salmon canning industry in San Francisco. Most of the companies have been sold off or moved elsewhere. But for James and the National Park Staff overseeing the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em> — the hard work and sacrifice of the workers who once kept them running hasn’t been forgotten.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music end\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was Bay Curious editor and producer Katrina Schwartz. Head to BayCurious.org to see photos from our trip to the \u003cem>Star of Alaska\u003c/em>, plus archival photos from San Francisco’s salmon canning history. We’ll drop a link in our show notes, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I love episodes like this one … they open my eyes to something about the Bay Area that … frankly, I had no idea about. That’s one of our big goals here at Bay Curious, actually. And if you think we’re the mark, please consider leaving us a rating or a review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever else you might listen. Kind words keep us going and help other potential listeners find our program. It only takes moment, and we really appreciate it. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Alana Walker, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I hope you have a wonderful week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "the-trashy-history-of-berkeleys-cesar-chavez-park",
"title": "The 'Trashy' History of Berkeley’s César Chávez Park",
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"headTitle": "The ‘Trashy’ History of Berkeley’s César Chávez Park | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s. Some of his most vivid memories from that time are of the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dump was located on Berkeley’s waterfront. Rauch remembers it as the Wild West. It smelled rank and was loud, with big bulldozers constantly shifting and compacting the garbage. Seagulls were ever-present, squawking above the roar of the machinery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there were all manner of things,” Rauch said. “There [were] refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there, and the bulldozers would come and push it over.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fast forward to today, and the dump is long gone. In its place is César Chávez Park, a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rauch visits the park from time to time, and he recently started to wonder about the old dump. How did it go from a squalid mass of junk to a beautiful shoreline park where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Transition from dump to park\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The city of Berkeley operated the 90-acre landfill site from the mid-1950s until 1983, when it stopped receiving waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The site, like much of the bay’s shoreline, was \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/east-bay-shoreline-became-park-people/\">saved from development\u003c/a> thanks in large part to environmental activists like Sylvia McLaughlin, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11991017/transcript-how-environmental-activism-that-saved-the-bay\">co-founder of what’s now known as Save the Bay.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>City officials decided to turn the spit of land into a park. But to do that, they had to seal off the garbage to ensure nothing would leak out and contaminate the environment. They capped the landfill with soil and clay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034169\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034169\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1035\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1583x2048.jpg 1583w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08.jpg 1700w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Berkeley Landfill on May 3, 1979. \u003ccite>(Berkeley Landfill Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If you take a cross section of the park’s underground, you’d see a layer cake of soil and garbage: starting from the bottom, about four feet of garbage, two feet of clean soil, two feet of compacted clay and about a foot of topsoil on top of that, all capped with grass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means the garbage remains to this day. Those grassy, green hills you see when you visit the park? It’s just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that wasn’t always the plan for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After it capped the dump, city officials started to think about how to landscape and develop the open space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They decided to solicit design proposals from landscape architects and eventually settled on a local designer named John Roberts. Roberts studied landscape architecture at UC Berkeley, where he graduated in 1974. \u003ca href=\"https://johnnorthmoreroberts.com/\">His firm focuses\u003c/a> on ecological and socially conscious landscape design. And he had all kinds of ideas for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was collaborating with another consultant based in Seattle \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/richard-haag\">named Richard Haag\u003c/a>, who had worked on landfill conversions before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What was revelatory to me was what Rich Haag had done in Seattle, which was to treat the landfill as a giant compost pile,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage, they proposed digging it up, cleaning it up and encouraging it to break down naturally, with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027171\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Roberts, a landscape architect, walks through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here, and we could use that to our advantage,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Roberts and his collaborators wanted to return the land to as close to its original form as they could before it was inundated with garbage. Their proposal included things like cultivating native plant species, dedicating space to wetland habitat and even building a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.[aside postID=news_11799297 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/01/GettyImages-1583045-1020x687.jpg']Roberts spent seven years on the project. However, when it came time for approval, the city decided not to move forward with the proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. Roberts suspects it was too much of a hassle for the city and that money was probably a factor, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was extremely disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t come out here for 15 years,” he said. “I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027173\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027173\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Bumps in the road\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Leaving all that trash underground has led to some complications for the city of Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it breaks down, the garbage produces methane, which is a combustible gas. Leaving it there is dangerous, so instead, the city installed a series of underground pipes to collect the gas and send it to a flaring station, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flaring station is located on the east side of the park, near the dog area. It’s a bit of an eyesore — and it can also be dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area Air District has issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027175\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027175\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Information about the former landfill at what is now César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Last year, the air district \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/04/04/cesar-chavez-park-methane-gas-bay-area-air-quality-management-district\">fined the city $130,000\u003c/a> for air quality violations at César Chávez Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley city officials declined a request for an interview for this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to air regulators, water regulators have also kept close tabs on the park. That’s after \u003ca href=\"https://documents.geotracker.waterboards.ca.gov/regulators/deliverable_documents/9874448478/Berkeley%20Landfill%2013267%20Letter%201-18-2024.pdf\">archival documents emerged (PDF)\u003c/a> showing that more than 11,000 tons of industrial waste believed to contain radioactive material was disposed of at the Berkeley dump in the 1960s and ’70s.[aside postID=news_11868474 hero='https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/04/Recology-bins-1020x574.jpg']It all started in May 2023, when Keith Roberson, who oversees landfills for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board, was talking on the phone with a colleague at the EPA’s Department of Toxic Substances Control (DTSC), which oversees hazardous waste sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, ‘By the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical,’” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water board immediately sent a letter to the city of Berkeley asking them to conduct radiation testing at the park, \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/09/11/radiation-testing-to-start-this-month-at-cesar-chavez-park\">which they did late last year\u003c/a>. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the city also collected water samples during its survey, and those results showed elevated concentrations of radium-226 — a radioactive compound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so,” Roberson said. “Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027174\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027174\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dog walker gives treats to a group of dogs at César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Alternate uses for shuttered landfills\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>César Chávez Park isn’t the only former landfill-turned-beautiful park in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Albany Bulb, for example, used to be a dumping ground for construction debris. The Bulb was also recently tested for radiation, and levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.petaluma360.com/article/news/where-the-tails-are-wagging/\">Petaluma dog park\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cityofpaloalto.org/Departments/Public-Works/Engineering-Services/Engineering-Projects/Byxbee-Park\">Byxbee Park\u003c/a> in Palo Alto, are also former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage,” Roberson said.[aside postID=news_11991017 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/06/GettyImages-492064784_qut-1020x665.jpg']Turning former landfills into open space is generally a low-risk use, said Roberson, especially compared to something like commercial development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, due to the high cost of land in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12016083/santa-clara-approves-major-housing-and-office-development-could-take-25-years-to-build\">approved a plan late last year\u003c/a> to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s more concerning, Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing,” he said. “So the landfill surface is subsiding, and it doesn’t subside evenly. Some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12 feet. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes a lot of additional planning to safely put a building on top of a former landfill, and even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to mention, many former landfill sites in the Bay Area are located directly on the water line, which poses a risk as the climate changes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12027540/land-sinking-fast-around-bay-area-worsening-effects-sea-level-rise\">sea levels rise\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027172\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flare station in César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A nostalgic place\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tom Rauch, our question-asker, went on a walk at César Chávez Park recently. He wanted to refresh his memory of the place. It was a cold, rainy day. He said he was struck by how beautiful it looked and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there was something tugging at him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea these days, he gets that. But Rauch said he’s glad his memories remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There are a lot of us who grew up in that Berkeley experience that are starting to remember fondly those kinds of Berkeley days.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He has vivid memories of that time. His mom worked at UC Berkeley and his dad was a grad student there, so he and his brother spent many days riding their bikes around campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another memory he still thinks about to this day… one of his most vivid… is going to the Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car. You know, you turned around, you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was on the west side of Berkeley, right on the water. It was like the Wild West. It smelled rank. It was loud, with big bull dozers shifting and compacting the garbage. And then there were the birds! Hundreds of sea gulls squawking above the roar of the machinery…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tom says back then, it seemed like the dump stretched for miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>And as a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there was all manner of things. You know, there’s refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there and the bulldozers would come and, of course, you know, push it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now… fast forward to today… and the dump is long gone. In its place is Cesar Chavez park… a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay. And Tom still visits! He goes once a month or so with his family… to walk around and take in the views. But he recently started to wonder about the old dump. Was it really the way he remembers it? How could it go from a squalid mass of junk… to this beautiful shoreline park, where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics? So, he did some research. Or, he tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>There is a surprisingly almost nonexistent amount of information about it there. Really. I couldn’t, maybe there are, but I couldn’t find any images of it. I couldn’t find any kind of recollections of it, any historical documents associated with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, he did what any Bay Area resident does when they have questions they can’t find the answers to: He reached out to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price and on today’s episode of Bay Curious… how did Berkeley’s former landfill site become one of its most popular public parks? And what are some of the challenges of turning a big pile of trash into a recreational space? All that, after this break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To uncover the mystery of the Berkeley dump we asked reporter Dana Cronin to see what she could dig up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> As a frequent visitor to Cesar Chavez park… I was excited about this one. I love taking my dog there to run the perimeter of the park. On a clear day, I don’t think there’s a better view of the Golden Gate Bridge. But… I was not around in the 1960s, and had no idea about the park’s former life as a landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, I called someone who does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> It was pretty thrilling to come down and just dump stuff out. And I don’t. You didn’t do it. I guess you were it before your time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>(laughing)\u003c/strong>: Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This is John Roberts. He’s a landscape architect here in Berkeley. I meet him … surprise surprise… at Cesar Chavez park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Park sounds\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> It’s a slightly cool and breezy morning, and we’re sitting on a park bench overlooking the bay. Ground squirrels dart around us, birds fly overhead, and a sea lion pops its head out of the water. It’s beautiful out here. But, as John likes to remind me…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> This is garbage. We’re on our garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> And let me just say, talking with John has totally changed how I think about this park. Before I met him, I thought of it as a beautiful green park with great views. But John still sees it as a big pile of trash, covered in grass. He says it could have been so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Music\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The Berkeley dump stopped receiving waste in the mid-80’s, and the city decided to landscape it and turn it into a park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To do that, they had to seal off the garbage… to prevent leakage and contamination. So, they trucked in a whole lot of soil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> There’s a four foot cross section of garbage. Then there’s two feet of clean soil and two feet of compacted clay and a foot of a foot of topsoil on top of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This layer cake of garbage and soil was capped with grass. And that’s pretty much how it looks to this day. Those rolling, green grassy hills? It’s all just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this wasn’t always the plan. After it capped the pile of trash, the city started to think about how to develop the space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city put out a call to landscape architects for design proposals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where John comes in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> 1986 or ’87, something like that, there was a call for proposals and I was selected as the prime consultant\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> He had all kinds of ideas. He was working with another consultant based in Seattle, who had worked on landfills before. And he had the idea to treat this site like a big compost pile.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage… they would dig it up, clean it up, and encourage it to break down naturally… with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here. And we could use that to our advantage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> Ultimately, John wanted to return this spit of land to its original form — before all the garbage. Or at least, as close as he could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The area used to be all marsh so John wanted to cultivate native plant species… dedicate space to wetland habitat… maybe even build a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But… as you may have guessed by now… none of that stuff happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending about seven years on this project, the city of Berkeley decided NOT to move forward with John’s proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> They found a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. John says he thinks it was just too complicated and too much of a hassle for the city. He says money was probably a factor too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin (to John in tape):\u003c/strong> How did it feel at that final vote when they endorsed but, you know, chose not to move forward with the project. How did you feel after having worked on it for so long?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> Disappointed. I didn’t come out here for 15 years, I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Had the city moved forward with John’s proposal, the park would look much different than it does today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also potentially could have saved the city of Berkeley from a lot of maintenance issues that have cropped up over the last several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because, as it turns out, that decision to keep the garbage underground has led to some complications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First of all as it breaks down the garbage is producing methane. Methane is a combustible gas, so they can’t just leave it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, they’ve put in a series of pipes underground to collect it. If you visit and look for them, you can see white access pipes sticking out of the ground every 200 feet or so throughout the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> So here we are. There’s a white pipe there. You see another white pipe over there, the white pipe sticking up all over the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>All that methane is sent to a flaring station on the east side of the park, near the dog area, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Flaring station ambi\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>The flaring station is a bit of an eyesore. And it can also be dangerous. Air regulators have issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks, and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year the air district fined the city 130-thousand dollars for air quality violations. I did reach out to Berkeley city officials for this story. They declined my request for an interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, it’s not just air regulators that have been keeping a close eye on the park. Water regulators are too. Specifically this guy…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Hi, my name is Keith Roberson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Keith works for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board. He’s responsible for overseeing landfills — both active and closed — to ensure they’re not contaminating the bay. Two years ago, he started to worry about the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>In May of 2023, I was having a phone conversation with one of my colleagues at the DTSC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>DTSC is the Department of Toxic Substances Control. It’s a part of the EPA, and it’s in charge of landfills that house hazardous waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, by the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill and the Albany landfill as well apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Hazardous material, that is. This letter was from the 1980’s, from the Stauffer Chemical company… and indicated that waste from one of their pesticide manufacturing facilities had likely ended up at the Berkeley landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>That’s when we first learned that, you know, there was a possibility or a likelihood that the Berkeley and Albany landfills had accepted some radioactive material\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Stauffer processed aluminum ore in their pesticide production, and the type of ore they used contains some naturally occurring radioactive elements. And this changed everything. Prior to this letter, there hadn’t been any indication that the Berkeley landfill contained any hazardous material. This was a matter of public safety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Keith sent letters to both cities, asking them to do some radiation testing at their respective parks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And late last year, Berkeley did just that. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone, and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, the results were in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did not find any spectral variation in the gamma signal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>In other words…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>So, that’s obviously a relief. But, the city also took some water samples during this survey. And Keith says, those results were a bit more concerning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did find elevated concentrations of radium 226 in their water samples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Radium 226 is a radioactive compound, which, with enough exposure, can cause cancer and even death in humans. But Keith says they didn’t detect concentrations that high at the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Now, whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so. Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>But, Keith says, clearly there’s something buried in that pile of trash that’s starting to leak out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, Cesar Chavez park isn’t the only former landfill site-turned beautiful park in the Bay Area. The Albany Bulb — for example — used to be a landfill for construction debris. And, as Keith mentioned earlier, the Bulb was also tested for radiation. Luckily, levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Petaluma dog park… Byxbee Park in Palo Alto… all former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Keith says yes, there are risks with turning a landfill into open space, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>What’s more risky, he says, is trying to convert a former landfill site into, say, a commercial space. But, given the high value of land here in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, recently decided to move forward with a proposal to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site, near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a little more concerning, Keith says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing. So the landfill surface is subsiding and it doesn’t subside evenly. You know, some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12ft. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>He says it takes a lot of planning to put a building on top of a former landfill and, even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater. Also, a lot of these former landfill sites lie right on the water line, which poses a real risk with climate change and sea level rise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom, our question-asker, went on a walk in Cesar Chavez park recently. He says he wanted to refresh his memory of the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a cold and rainy day. He says he was struck by how beautiful it looked… and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch:\u003c/strong> And at the same time, there was that little tug about, well, you know, I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom says he gets that these days a landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea. And even though the Berkeley dump is long gone… his vivid memories of the smells, the sounds, the whole experience of the place… remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Dana Cronin. Thanks to Tom Rauch for asking this week’s question. You can check out what the old Berkeley dump used to look like by heading over to Baycurious.org. We’ve got archival photos and new ones too! And while you’re there, why not sign up for the Bay Curious newsletter? We answer even more of your questions there and it only comes once a month, so it won’t clog your inbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Sitting on Berkeley’s beautiful waterfront, César Chávez Park offers visitors sweeping vistas and rolling green hills. The site used to be the city’s dumping ground.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s. Some of his most vivid memories from that time are of the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The dump was located on Berkeley’s waterfront. Rauch remembers it as the Wild West. It smelled rank and was loud, with big bulldozers constantly shifting and compacting the garbage. Seagulls were ever-present, squawking above the roar of the machinery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there were all manner of things,” Rauch said. “There [were] refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there, and the bulldozers would come and push it over.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fast forward to today, and the dump is long gone. In its place is César Chávez Park, a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rauch visits the park from time to time, and he recently started to wonder about the old dump. How did it go from a squalid mass of junk to a beautiful shoreline park where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Transition from dump to park\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The city of Berkeley operated the 90-acre landfill site from the mid-1950s until 1983, when it stopped receiving waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The site, like much of the bay’s shoreline, was \u003ca href=\"https://baynature.org/article/east-bay-shoreline-became-park-people/\">saved from development\u003c/a> thanks in large part to environmental activists like Sylvia McLaughlin, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11991017/transcript-how-environmental-activism-that-saved-the-bay\">co-founder of what’s now known as Save the Bay.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>City officials decided to turn the spit of land into a park. But to do that, they had to seal off the garbage to ensure nothing would leak out and contaminate the environment. They capped the landfill with soil and clay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12034169\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12034169\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1035\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08-1583x2048.jpg 1583w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/04/1975-1988-Berkeley-Landfill-Records_Page_08.jpg 1700w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Berkeley Landfill on May 3, 1979. \u003ccite>(Berkeley Landfill Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>If you take a cross section of the park’s underground, you’d see a layer cake of soil and garbage: starting from the bottom, about four feet of garbage, two feet of clean soil, two feet of compacted clay and about a foot of topsoil on top of that, all capped with grass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This means the garbage remains to this day. Those grassy, green hills you see when you visit the park? It’s just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that wasn’t always the plan for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After it capped the dump, city officials started to think about how to landscape and develop the open space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They decided to solicit design proposals from landscape architects and eventually settled on a local designer named John Roberts. Roberts studied landscape architecture at UC Berkeley, where he graduated in 1974. \u003ca href=\"https://johnnorthmoreroberts.com/\">His firm focuses\u003c/a> on ecological and socially conscious landscape design. And he had all kinds of ideas for the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was collaborating with another consultant based in Seattle \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/richard-haag\">named Richard Haag\u003c/a>, who had worked on landfill conversions before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What was revelatory to me was what Rich Haag had done in Seattle, which was to treat the landfill as a giant compost pile,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage, they proposed digging it up, cleaning it up and encouraging it to break down naturally, with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027171\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027171\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-06-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Roberts, a landscape architect, walks through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here, and we could use that to our advantage,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Roberts and his collaborators wanted to return the land to as close to its original form as they could before it was inundated with garbage. Their proposal included things like cultivating native plant species, dedicating space to wetland habitat and even building a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Roberts spent seven years on the project. However, when it came time for approval, the city decided not to move forward with the proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it,” Roberts said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. Roberts suspects it was too much of a hassle for the city and that money was probably a factor, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was extremely disappointed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t come out here for 15 years,” he said. “I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027173\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027173\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-11-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">People walk through César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Bumps in the road\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Leaving all that trash underground has led to some complications for the city of Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As it breaks down, the garbage produces methane, which is a combustible gas. Leaving it there is dangerous, so instead, the city installed a series of underground pipes to collect the gas and send it to a flaring station, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The flaring station is located on the east side of the park, near the dog area. It’s a bit of an eyesore — and it can also be dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area Air District has issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027175\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027175\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-16-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Information about the former landfill at what is now César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Last year, the air district \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/04/04/cesar-chavez-park-methane-gas-bay-area-air-quality-management-district\">fined the city $130,000\u003c/a> for air quality violations at César Chávez Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Berkeley city officials declined a request for an interview for this story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to air regulators, water regulators have also kept close tabs on the park. That’s after \u003ca href=\"https://documents.geotracker.waterboards.ca.gov/regulators/deliverable_documents/9874448478/Berkeley%20Landfill%2013267%20Letter%201-18-2024.pdf\">archival documents emerged (PDF)\u003c/a> showing that more than 11,000 tons of industrial waste believed to contain radioactive material was disposed of at the Berkeley dump in the 1960s and ’70s.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It all started in May 2023, when Keith Roberson, who oversees landfills for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board, was talking on the phone with a colleague at the EPA’s Department of Toxic Substances Control (DTSC), which oversees hazardous waste sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, ‘By the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical,’” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The water board immediately sent a letter to the city of Berkeley asking them to conduct radiation testing at the park, \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2024/09/11/radiation-testing-to-start-this-month-at-cesar-chavez-park\">which they did late last year\u003c/a>. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the city also collected water samples during its survey, and those results showed elevated concentrations of radium-226 — a radioactive compound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so,” Roberson said. “Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027174\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027174\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dog walker gives treats to a group of dogs at César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Alternate uses for shuttered landfills\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>César Chávez Park isn’t the only former landfill-turned-beautiful park in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Albany Bulb, for example, used to be a dumping ground for construction debris. The Bulb was also recently tested for radiation, and levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.petaluma360.com/article/news/where-the-tails-are-wagging/\">Petaluma dog park\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cityofpaloalto.org/Departments/Public-Works/Engineering-Services/Engineering-Projects/Byxbee-Park\">Byxbee Park\u003c/a> in Palo Alto, are also former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage,” Roberson said.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Turning former landfills into open space is generally a low-risk use, said Roberson, especially compared to something like commercial development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, due to the high cost of land in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12016083/santa-clara-approves-major-housing-and-office-development-could-take-25-years-to-build\">approved a plan late last year\u003c/a> to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s more concerning, Roberson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing,” he said. “So the landfill surface is subsiding, and it doesn’t subside evenly. Some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12 feet. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes a lot of additional planning to safely put a building on top of a former landfill, and even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Not to mention, many former landfill sites in the Bay Area are located directly on the water line, which poses a risk as the climate changes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12027540/land-sinking-fast-around-bay-area-worsening-effects-sea-level-rise\">sea levels rise\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12027172\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12027172\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/250211-BERKELEYDUMP-07-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flare station in César Chávez Park on Feb. 11, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A nostalgic place\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tom Rauch, our question-asker, went on a walk at César Chávez Park recently. He wanted to refresh his memory of the place. It was a cold, rainy day. He said he was struck by how beautiful it looked and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there was something tugging at him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea these days, he gets that. But Rauch said he’s glad his memories remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There are a lot of us who grew up in that Berkeley experience that are starting to remember fondly those kinds of Berkeley days.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Tom Rauch grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He has vivid memories of that time. His mom worked at UC Berkeley and his dad was a grad student there, so he and his brother spent many days riding their bikes around campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another memory he still thinks about to this day… one of his most vivid… is going to the Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>It really was just this big, giant pit where you backed up your car. You know, you turned around, you backed up your car, opened up your trunk and just shoveled whatever you had into this open pit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was on the west side of Berkeley, right on the water. It was like the Wild West. It smelled rank. It was loud, with big bull dozers shifting and compacting the garbage. And then there were the birds! Hundreds of sea gulls squawking above the roar of the machinery…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tom says back then, it seemed like the dump stretched for miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>And as a little kid, of course, I was fascinated by this because there was all manner of things. You know, there’s refrigerators and lumber and whatever people didn’t want. It was just sitting right there and the bulldozers would come and, of course, you know, push it over.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now… fast forward to today… and the dump is long gone. In its place is Cesar Chavez park… a big grassy expanse with sweeping views of the entire bay. And Tom still visits! He goes once a month or so with his family… to walk around and take in the views. But he recently started to wonder about the old dump. Was it really the way he remembers it? How could it go from a squalid mass of junk… to this beautiful shoreline park, where people go to walk their dogs, fly kites and have picnics? So, he did some research. Or, he tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch: \u003c/strong>There is a surprisingly almost nonexistent amount of information about it there. Really. I couldn’t, maybe there are, but I couldn’t find any images of it. I couldn’t find any kind of recollections of it, any historical documents associated with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, he did what any Bay Area resident does when they have questions they can’t find the answers to: He reached out to Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Theme music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price and on today’s episode of Bay Curious… how did Berkeley’s former landfill site become one of its most popular public parks? And what are some of the challenges of turning a big pile of trash into a recreational space? All that, after this break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To uncover the mystery of the Berkeley dump we asked reporter Dana Cronin to see what she could dig up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> As a frequent visitor to Cesar Chavez park… I was excited about this one. I love taking my dog there to run the perimeter of the park. On a clear day, I don’t think there’s a better view of the Golden Gate Bridge. But… I was not around in the 1960s, and had no idea about the park’s former life as a landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, I called someone who does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> It was pretty thrilling to come down and just dump stuff out. And I don’t. You didn’t do it. I guess you were it before your time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana\u003c/strong> \u003cstrong>(laughing)\u003c/strong>: Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This is John Roberts. He’s a landscape architect here in Berkeley. I meet him … surprise surprise… at Cesar Chavez park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Park sounds\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> It’s a slightly cool and breezy morning, and we’re sitting on a park bench overlooking the bay. Ground squirrels dart around us, birds fly overhead, and a sea lion pops its head out of the water. It’s beautiful out here. But, as John likes to remind me…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> This is garbage. We’re on our garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> And let me just say, talking with John has totally changed how I think about this park. Before I met him, I thought of it as a beautiful green park with great views. But John still sees it as a big pile of trash, covered in grass. He says it could have been so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Music\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The Berkeley dump stopped receiving waste in the mid-80’s, and the city decided to landscape it and turn it into a park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To do that, they had to seal off the garbage… to prevent leakage and contamination. So, they trucked in a whole lot of soil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> There’s a four foot cross section of garbage. Then there’s two feet of clean soil and two feet of compacted clay and a foot of a foot of topsoil on top of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> This layer cake of garbage and soil was capped with grass. And that’s pretty much how it looks to this day. Those rolling, green grassy hills? It’s all just grass-covered garbage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But this wasn’t always the plan. After it capped the pile of trash, the city started to think about how to develop the space. Should it have tennis courts, a redwood tree grove, a playground?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city put out a call to landscape architects for design proposals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s where John comes in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> 1986 or ’87, something like that, there was a call for proposals and I was selected as the prime consultant\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> He had all kinds of ideas. He was working with another consultant based in Seattle, who had worked on landfills before. And he had the idea to treat this site like a big compost pile.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In other words, instead of capping and forgetting about the garbage… they would dig it up, clean it up, and encourage it to break down naturally… with the help of the already-existing bacteria and microbes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> The garbage is being cleaned up by the bugs that are here. And we could use that to our advantage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> Ultimately, John wanted to return this spit of land to its original form — before all the garbage. Or at least, as close as he could get.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The area used to be all marsh so John wanted to cultivate native plant species… dedicate space to wetland habitat… maybe even build a beach where humans and animals could access the bay more easily.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But… as you may have guessed by now… none of that stuff happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After spending about seven years on this project, the city of Berkeley decided NOT to move forward with John’s proposal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> They found a 57-word phrase that said how much they liked the plan and how it reflected all their values, but they couldn’t approve it.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin:\u003c/strong> The proposal was bold and broke a lot of norms for landfill restoration. John says he thinks it was just too complicated and too much of a hassle for the city. He says money was probably a factor too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin (to John in tape):\u003c/strong> How did it feel at that final vote when they endorsed but, you know, chose not to move forward with the project. How did you feel after having worked on it for so long?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> Disappointed. I didn’t come out here for 15 years, I could see what it could have been. It could have been something so much different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Had the city moved forward with John’s proposal, the park would look much different than it does today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It also potentially could have saved the city of Berkeley from a lot of maintenance issues that have cropped up over the last several years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because, as it turns out, that decision to keep the garbage underground has led to some complications.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First of all as it breaks down the garbage is producing methane. Methane is a combustible gas, so they can’t just leave it there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, they’ve put in a series of pipes underground to collect it. If you visit and look for them, you can see white access pipes sticking out of the ground every 200 feet or so throughout the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Roberts:\u003c/strong> So here we are. There’s a white pipe there. You see another white pipe over there, the white pipe sticking up all over the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>All that methane is sent to a flaring station on the east side of the park, near the dog area, where it burns off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Flaring station ambi\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>The flaring station is a bit of an eyesore. And it can also be dangerous. Air regulators have issued numerous notices of violation to the city of Berkeley over its management of the landfill flaring. Violations include missing gas collection wells, severe methane leaks, and failure to continuously operate the system during power outages.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year the air district fined the city 130-thousand dollars for air quality violations. I did reach out to Berkeley city officials for this story. They declined my request for an interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, it’s not just air regulators that have been keeping a close eye on the park. Water regulators are too. Specifically this guy…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Hi, my name is Keith Roberson.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Keith works for the San Francisco Bay Regional Water Quality Control Board. He’s responsible for overseeing landfills — both active and closed — to ensure they’re not contaminating the bay. Two years ago, he started to worry about the old Berkeley dump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>In May of 2023, I was having a phone conversation with one of my colleagues at the DTSC.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>DTSC is the Department of Toxic Substances Control. It’s a part of the EPA, and it’s in charge of landfills that house hazardous waste.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>My counterpart at DTSC mentioned, you know, by the way, I have run across a document that I want to share with you that indicates that the Berkeley landfill and the Albany landfill as well apparently had accepted some material from a chemical plant in Richmond that was known as Stauffer Chemical.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Hazardous material, that is. This letter was from the 1980’s, from the Stauffer Chemical company… and indicated that waste from one of their pesticide manufacturing facilities had likely ended up at the Berkeley landfill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>That’s when we first learned that, you know, there was a possibility or a likelihood that the Berkeley and Albany landfills had accepted some radioactive material\u003cem>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Stauffer processed aluminum ore in their pesticide production, and the type of ore they used contains some naturally occurring radioactive elements. And this changed everything. Prior to this letter, there hadn’t been any indication that the Berkeley landfill contained any hazardous material. This was a matter of public safety.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, Keith sent letters to both cities, asking them to do some radiation testing at their respective parks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And late last year, Berkeley did just that. With the help of UC Berkeley experts, the city attached a highly sensitive radiation sensor to a drone, and flew it over the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then, the results were in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did not find any spectral variation in the gamma signal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>In other words…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>There’s really no indication from the Gamma survey that there are any places on the surface of the Berkeley landfill that pose a threat to human health.\u003cem> \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>So, that’s obviously a relief. But, the city also took some water samples during this survey. And Keith says, those results were a bit more concerning.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>They did find elevated concentrations of radium 226 in their water samples.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Radium 226 is a radioactive compound, which, with enough exposure, can cause cancer and even death in humans. But Keith says they didn’t detect concentrations that high at the park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Now, whether or not that poses any threat to humans above the surface, we don’t think so. Does it pose a threat to water quality in the bay? We don’t think so. But we’re still in the process of analyzing that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>But, Keith says, clearly there’s something buried in that pile of trash that’s starting to leak out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Now, Cesar Chavez park isn’t the only former landfill site-turned beautiful park in the Bay Area. The Albany Bulb — for example — used to be a landfill for construction debris. And, as Keith mentioned earlier, the Bulb was also tested for radiation. Luckily, levels there were also not dangerous to human health.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Petaluma dog park… Byxbee Park in Palo Alto… all former dumps!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Keith says yes, there are risks with turning a landfill into open space, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>From the water board’s perspective, that’s probably our preferred usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>What’s more risky, he says, is trying to convert a former landfill site into, say, a commercial space. But, given the high value of land here in the Bay Area, some cities are doing just that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The city of Santa Clara, for example, recently decided to move forward with a proposal to put a shopping center, office space and even condominiums on a former landfill site, near Levi’s Stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s a little more concerning, Keith says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Keith Roberson: \u003c/strong>Landfills contain organic material that’s decomposing. So the landfill surface is subsiding and it doesn’t subside evenly. You know, some parts may drop four feet, some parts may drop 12ft. So you get this very uneven hummocky surface.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>He says it takes a lot of planning to put a building on top of a former landfill and, even then, it’s risky — especially for the groundwater. Also, a lot of these former landfill sites lie right on the water line, which poses a real risk with climate change and sea level rise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom, our question-asker, went on a walk in Cesar Chavez park recently. He says he wanted to refresh his memory of the place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was a cold and rainy day. He says he was struck by how beautiful it looked… and at the outstanding views of the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tom Rauch:\u003c/strong> And at the same time, there was that little tug about, well, you know, I know we shouldn’t have this, but it would be so much fun if you could still drive your car to the mouth of this pit and just shovel away and have the seagulls and the bulldozers keeping you company.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dana Cronin: \u003c/strong>Tom says he gets that these days a landfill right on the water isn’t a great idea. And even though the Berkeley dump is long gone… his vivid memories of the smells, the sounds, the whole experience of the place… remain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Dana Cronin. Thanks to Tom Rauch for asking this week’s question. You can check out what the old Berkeley dump used to look like by heading over to Baycurious.org. We’ve got archival photos and new ones too! And while you’re there, why not sign up for the Bay Curious newsletter? We answer even more of your questions there and it only comes once a month, so it won’t clog your inbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Alana Walker, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#Transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing we know for sure about the Bay Curious audience is that you have lots of questions about how we get around the Bay Area. From the very start of the podcast 10 years ago next month, transportation has been one of the topics that surface again and again and again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received a lot of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11798346/why-are-bart-escalators-nearly-always-broken-and-how-did-they-build-those-tunnels\">questions\u003c/a> about BART, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11932690/why-doesnt-bart-go-more-places\">why it doesn’t go more places\u003c/a> and how the process of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11986396/when-bart-was-built-people-and-houses-had-to-go\">clearing businesses and homes from its route\u003c/a> worked when the system was built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received questions about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11892152/the-tale-of-the-bay-bridge-troll\">the Bay Bridge troll(s)\u003c/a>. And about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11864205/is-that-a-ghost-freeway-on-the-peninsula-and-are-our-highways-filthier-than-ever\">why there’s so much trash\u003c/a> on Bay Area freeways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now, after 10 years and a total of 10,000 questions from you, our loyal audience, we’re returning to the transportation theme by answering a bunch of bridge-related questions and one inquiry that touches on how Bay Area residents express their personalities on our license plates. Here goes:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jump straight to:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#A\">Where does the toll money from Bay Area Bridges go?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#B\">Why is there a closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#C\">Is the \u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\">westbound\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\"> right carpool lane onto the Bay Bridge really ‘buses only’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#D\">Why do so many Bay Area freeway names end in ‘80’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#E\">What’s with the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#F\">Why are there so many vanity license plates?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11958608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11958608\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aerial shot of cars at a series of toll booths on a bridge, with a $7 toll fee in a digital sign above the booths.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1634\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-2048x1307.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1920x1225.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles cross the toll plaza on the Bay Bridge during the afternoon commute in Oakland on June 26, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jane Tyska/Digital First Media/East Bay Times via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>First up, Dani Robillard has this question about the money we shell out when we drive across bridges in our region: \u003cem>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\nYour guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off, Dani. The tolls across the seven state-owned bridges in the Bay Area will bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think the natural inclination is to think that the money collected when you drive through a toll plaza is going to be spent on the bridge you’re crossing, end of story. But the reality is more complicated and involves decisions transportation officials and Bay Area voters have made over the last half-century or so. The tolls we pay go to operating and maintaining the bridges — and to lots of other transportation-related things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seven of the eight toll bridges in the Bay Area — the Bay Bridge, Antioch, Benicia, Carquinez, Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo and Dumbarton spans — are owned by the state of California. The money drivers pay is collected by an agency called \u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/about-mtc/authorities/bay-area-toll-authority-bata\">the Bay Area Toll Authority\u003c/a>, or BATA, which also makes decisions about how to spend the revenue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In making its spending decisions, BATA has numerous obligations. Those include paying for ongoing maintenance and upkeep of the bridges, long-term rehabilitation projects, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.\">paying off bonds\u003c/a> floated to finance past projects like the $6.4 billion eastern span of the Bay Bridge. Last year, when tolls on the state-owned bridges were $7, BATA estimated that $4 of that charge was being spent in one way or another on the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But how about the other $3? That portion of your toll payment is going in all sorts of different directions due to a series of ballot measures that transportation officials and the Legislature have put before voters since the late 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-1-rm-1\">Regional Measure 1\u003c/a>, passed in 1988, created a uniform $1 toll for all seven state-owned bridges. (Before Measure 1, tolls on the bridges ranged from 40 cents to $1.) The new funding was used for several bridge improvements but also for several major street and highway improvements, including the Richmond Parkway in Contra Costa County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-2\">Regional Measure 2\u003c/a>, passed in 2004, raised tolls again by $1 (bringing them to $3 because of a 1998 increase imposed to help pay for the eastern span of the Bay Bridge). The proceeds from RM2 helped pay for the fourth bore of the Caldecott Tunnel, the new Transbay (now Salesforce) Transit Center and other big capital projects. The measure continues to provide day-to-day operating funds for AC Transit’s 1T bus rapid transit line on International Boulevard and San Francisco Muni’s T-Third light rail line and other services. Some RM2 funds also help pay for pedestrian and bike projects near the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11671240/10-things-to-know-regional-measure-3-the-proposed-bay-area-bridge-toll-increase\">Regional Measure 3\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, included $3 in toll increases that, as of Jan. 1 this year, brings the basic charge for crossing the state bridges to $8. RM3 is helping fund nearly three dozen projects and services around the region, including BART’s extension through downtown San José (coming in 2037, by current estimates), some of BART’s new train cars, improved ferry service, and freeway express lanes (toll lanes) in six different counties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ll mention in closing that the Golden Gate Bridge is owned and operated by a separate agency that has its own toll and budget policies and priorities, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.goldengate.org/\">Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District\u003c/a>. According to the district’s fiscal 2024–25 budget, tolls make up about half of its $320 million of its revenue this year. It’s spending about one-third of that — $108 million — on bridge operations. Most of the rest of the budget, $166 million, is going to pay for the district’s bus and ferry service.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"B\">\u003c/a>That closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11635414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11635414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles approach the Bay Bridge Toll Plaza in Oakland on Dec. 5, 2017. Days before, a truck crashed into toll booth number 14 and killed worker Si Si Han. \u003ccite>(Farida Jhabvala Romero/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The next question comes from Andres Barraza: \u003cem>Why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they reopen it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The closure of that lane at the Bay Bridge toll plaza — Lane 14, to be exact — is a tragic story that goes back more than seven years. In the early morning of Dec. 2, 2017, a box truck slammed into the toll booth and killed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11635239/tollbooth-worker-killed-in-bay-bridge-crash-remembered-as-kind-generous\">the veteran toll taker there, 46-year-old Si Si Han\u003c/a>. The fact that the toll booth has never been rebuilt or the lane opened is due to a combination of circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area bridge officials and Caltrans reportedly determined that the loss of the lane did not have a major impact on traffic flow through the toll plaza. That was especially true after the onset of the pandemic and the dramatic drop in traffic on the bridge. More recently, the rationale for leaving the lane as it is has shifted: The entire toll plaza will be phased out at some point in the next few years with the introduction of “\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/operations/programs-projects/bridges/open-road-tolling\">open-road tolling\u003c/a>.” That’s a system that uses an overhead structure, called a gantry, equipped with cameras and tag-reading equipment that can record vehicles passing at highway speeds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can get a little preview of how the system works on the two high-occupancy vehicle lanes on the north side of the Bay Area toll plaza, where carpool (and other) drivers currently zip beneath an overhead gantry equipped with cameras and tag readers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"C\">\u003c/a>And speaking of that high-occupancy vehicle lane… How legit is ‘buses only’?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032187\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"656\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-800x513.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-1020x653.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-160x103.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">AC Transit buses roll toward the Bay Bridge in the carpool lane of the Eastshore Freeway in Berkeley on Thursday, May 10, 2018. \u003ccite>(Paul Chinn/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Sam wrote this: \u003cem>Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled buses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve wondered what’s going on with this lane, too, and when we got Sam’s question, we asked John Goodwin from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission (MTC) what the story is: The brief answer is that during weekday commute hours — between 5 a.m. and 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. — buses, carpools with three or more people, motorcycles and, for now, cars with valid DMV clean-air stickers — are all permitted to use the lane. Outside of those hours, \u003cem>only buses can lawfully use that lane.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for enforcement, the MTC contracts with the California Highway Patrol to enforce high-occupancy vehicle lanes. If you’re caught using that Bay Bridge lane outside the legal hours, you’ll be subject to a fine of $490 or more. (The same goes for violating carpool hours or passenger and decal requirements on any California HOV lane.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sam also mentions the photo toll equipment on that Bay Bridge carpool lane. Two things about that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, drivers using the HOV lanes are supposed to have FasTrak tags, which are necessary to get the 50% discount that carpoolers get during weekday commute hours. Outside the designated carpool hours, when you’re violating the law by using the carpool lane, FasTrak will charge you a non-discounted toll for passing through the toll plaza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, the photo equipment Sam mentions is used for toll collection, not carpool enforcement. The cameras, which are deployed on all the toll lanes at the Bay Bridge, serve as a sort of backup system for Fastrak. They capture license plate images for each passing vehicle and ensure that drivers who don’t have toll tags are charged for crossing the bridges like everyone else.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"D\">\u003c/a>Eighty! Eighty! Eighty!\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12003260\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12003260\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1298\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1536x1038.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view, cars travel along Interstate 80 on Jan. 16, 2024, in Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: \u003cem>Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with “80”? For instance, 880, 680, 280, 580. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The simple explanation for this numbering system is that all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. I-80 stretches from the George Washington Bridge in New York City to San Francisco, where it connects to U.S. 101 and heads south.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Under the federal government’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.fhwa.dot.gov/programadmin/interstate.cfm\">Interstate highway numbering system\u003c/a>, there are two kinds of these branch routes, each designated with the three-digit numbers Martin mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with even numbers. like 280, 680, and 880 in the Bay Area, are rather arbitrarily considered to be full or partial belt routes. Those are highways that traditionally run around the circumference of a region. The best example I know of, a true belt route, is Interstate 495 around Washington, D.C. Arguably, Interstates 680 and 280 in our region are peripheral routes, but there’s no way in the world you could put Interstate 880, from Oakland to San José, in that category. At least in our learned opinion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they connect other major routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980. Most of these routes are very short. I-980, just west of downtown Oakland, is just 2 miles long; 380, which connects 280 with U.S. 101 at San Francisco International Airport, measures a little over 3 miles, and 780, between 80 and 680 in Solano County, is 6.5 miles. But sometimes these routes are really, really long: Interstate 580 runs 75 miles from Interstate 5 in San Joaquin County all the way to U.S. 101 in Marin.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"E\">\u003c/a>The saga of the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11971910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11971910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traffic on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge on Jan. 8, 2024. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Phil Narodick asks: \u003cem>There’s a third lane on the lower deck of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To answer that, maybe a little bridge history is in order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge opened in 1956, both its upper, westbound deck and lower, eastbound deck were configured with three lanes of traffic. Twenty years later, nature intervened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California suffered through one of its worst droughts in 1976 and 1977. It was so dry for so long that Marin County’s reservoirs threatened to dry up. To respond to that crisis, water officials worked out an agreement to build a water pipeline across the upper deck of the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to help relieve Marin’s shortage. That arrangement took the right lane on the westbound desk out of service. As it turned out, the pipeline was used for less than a year because the rains returned in the fall of 1977. A few years later, the pipeline was removed. But the space it occupied was turned into a lane for breakdowns and maintenance crews.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK — that was the upper deck, and we’ll have more to say about that in a moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the lower deck that Phil is asking about, something similar happened, only without the pipeline. In 1980, Caltrans decided to reduce traffic from three lanes to two and use the right lane for motorist emergencies and bridge maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And there things stood until about a decade ago when Caltrans and other agencies came up with a proposal to restore that third lane of traffic on the lower, eastbound deck. The reason: Afternoon commute congestion had grown so acute that traffic was backing up not only across the bridge but back along Interstate 580 to U.S. 101 and to surface streets in San Rafael. By \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11648255/san-rafael-richmond-bridge-eastbound-lane\">opening up a third lane\u003c/a>, traffic engineers reasoned, congestion could be reduced. The plan was adopted, and the restored third lane opened in 2018. It turned out the traffic engineers were right: Opening that lane during the afternoon commute resulted in a dramatic reduction in congestion for the corridor, one that continues today in part because of reduced traffic in the wake of the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As to the operating hours for that third lane: The Metropolitan Transportation Commission’s John Goodwin said Caltrans opens the lane from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. seven days a week. He adds that Caltrans can adjust third-lane operations based on real-time conditions, but said that has seldom happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now let’s revisit the upper deck: As part of the same four-year pilot project proposal that restored the eastbound third lane, transportation agencies \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11786768/richmond-san-rafael-bridge-bike-walking-path\">installed a bike and pedestrian pathway\u003c/a> on the old right lane of the westbound upper deck. The upper deck path opened in 2019. With the exception of the Golden Gate Bridge, which is extremely popular with bike riders, the Richmond-San Rafael path has become the most used bridge crossing for cyclists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s also become \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11971935/richmond-bridge-bike-path-has-an-amazing-view-and-an-uncertain-future\">an object of controversy\u003c/a>. Critics of the lane contend that it’s the main culprit in the long backups that form most weekday mornings as westbound traffic makes its way through Richmond to the bridge. At the same time, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bcdc.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/sites/354/2024/12/2025-03-20-Richmond-San-Rafael-Bridge-PATH-Study-Phase-II-Attachment-A.pdf\">a study by UC Berkeley researchers (PDF)\u003c/a> hired to analyze the path’s effect on traffic found it hasn’t had a major impact on congestion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The critics, including the Bay Area Council business group and the Marin County Board of Supervisors, have urged Caltrans and the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to take action to relieve the congestion. The resulting MTC plan would close the path four days a week and use it as a breakdown lane. Bike riders and pedestrians would get to use it from Friday through Sunday, the path’s most popular days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ultimate decision on whether that plan will go forward rests with the Bay Conservation and Development Commission, which will consider the issue on April 3.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"F\">\u003c/a>Why so many vanity license plates?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032191\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">49ers fan Bobbie Lince holds her license plate at a tailgate party outside Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara on Jan. 28, 2024, before an NFC Championship Game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Detroit Lions. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And one final question for this episode, from Marissa in Oakland. She asks: Why are there so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To our surprise, someone actually did a national survey on this. That’s very helpful in terms of giving Marissa what looks and feels like a solid answer. However, the study, carried out by the American Association of Motor Vehicle Administrators and a vanity license plate site called LCNS2ROM.com, was done in 2007. So does it reflect \u003cem>current\u003c/em> reality? We can’t swear that it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what we can say is back then, one state stood out above all others for the popularity of personalized license plates: Virginia. \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20080727002335/http:/www.lcns2rom.com/vanityplatesurvey.htm\">The survey\u003c/a>, which we tracked down on the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, found that 16.19% of all plates issued there, one in six, were personalized. Virginia was followed by New Hampshire, Illinois, Nevada, Montana, Maine, Connecticut, New Jersey, North Dakota and Vermont. That’s your top ten for vanity license plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Where did California come in? Twenty-second, with about 3.5% of all plates issued.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We can offer at least a partial update for those California numbers. As of 2007, the old survey said, the state had issued about 1.1 million personalized license plates. The Department of Motor Vehicles said that number is now 1,650,184, a 50% increase over the last 18 years. With about 32 million vehicles on the road, that would mean about 5% are carrying personalized plates. What we don’t know is where California ranks now among the other 49 states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"Transcript\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here. And I want to take you back for a moment to April 2015, when you could have been scanning the radio …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(sounds of switching through the radio dial)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And settled on 88.5 KQED to hear the very first airing of a Bay Curious story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Archival Tape of KQED’s Joshua Johnson: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>OK, time for something fun. Today, we’re launching a special series about local oddities, mysterious and curiosities. We’re calling it Bay Curious.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was about this old wrecked car that hikers pass often on Mount Tamalpais. Reporter/Producer, Katrina Schwartz, and I hiked out to the wreck to check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Olivia and Katrina in archival tape: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Holy cow that’s it! What a piece of junk. That is really unexpected…\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In some ways, that was the perfect story to kick off what is now nearly a 10-year-old journalism experiment. It took us through some Bay Area history. We learned about car manufacturing in the 1940s. We talked to some fascinating people. It was a story that had all the elements that I hope Bay Curious has come to be known for. And … it was about a \u003cem>car\u003c/em>. Which, really, isn’t that surprising. Because, over the years, more than 10,000 questions have poured in from you, our dear audience, and \u003cem>transportation\u003c/em> is one of the topics that we get the most questions about. Maybe it’s because getting around our region … has some pain points? I dunno.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today, as we barrel toward our 10-year anniversary, we thought we’d answer a bunch of your transit questions that have been lingering in the Bay Curious inbox. Like “how much toll money gets collected on our bridges, and where does it go?” “Why has one toll booth been closed on the Bay Bridge for years?” And “Are there more vanity license plates in California than in other places?” It’s a transit lighting round, so hold on tight, and we will get going to pick up some answers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Start and rev engine in background)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When a transit question strikes, KQED editor and reporter Dan Brekke is the person that I always go to to ask. He’s been covering transportation in the Bay Area for more than 20 years, and he’s, I think it’s fair to say, an OG transit nerd. Welcome, Dan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Hi Olivia\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So we have a pile of questions to get through this morning, but more than half of them have to do with our bridges. So I want to start there. Now, every time you cross one of our major bridges, you should probably hear a little ka-ching sound go off because they all come with a toll, usually somewhere in the vicinity of $8 to $10 … less if you’ve been smart enough to carpool. Now, multiply that by thousands of motorists crossing those bridges every hour, and a listener and longtime San Francisco resident, named Dani Robillard, has been seeing dollar signs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>What do you know, Dan?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So that money goes to maintaining the bridges and to lots of other things. Your guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off. There’s an organization called the Bay Area Toll Authority. And that’s an agency that was created to collect all the revenue from all the bridges — the seven state-owned bridges — and then to allocate it for various projects that we’ve agreed to as a region over the years. So they say that they bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Can we dig in a little bit deeper because Dani wants us to break it down further…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>We have so many bridges and prices are increasing at an alarming rate. And I just really question, when I see the roads, and at times the conditions of our cities, where does all that money go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I always thought the toll was to pay for the bridge. And once the bridge was paid off, the toll maybe go away. But that’s clearly not the case because some of these bridges have been around for decades and I imagine some of these bridges are paid off by now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, the bridges themselves might be paid off. You know, the Bay Bridge opened nearly 90 years ago. Next year will be the 90th anniversary. But, you know, there are ongoing costs, right? You build something that big and complex, and you have many needs over the years just to keep it up, to pave it, to reconfigure it if you need to. And so when you look at the toll dollars we spend going into this fiscal year, the Bay Area Toll Authority said about 60% of the toll funds were going into bridge stuff, right, all the things that I was just talking about, but the other 40% goes to a bunch of things that have, on the surface may be little to do with the bridges themselves but are all very important to the Bay Area’s transportation network. And those are things that range from BART’s brand new fleet of cars, to bike and pedestrian paths around the Bay Area and everything in between. So how did we decide to apportion 40% of those funds that we’re paying at the toll booth for these other things that you don’t see on the bridge? Well, there have been a series of regional measures called, cleverly enough, regional measures one, two, and three that we passed in 1988, 2004, and 2018. Those measures did two things. They raised tolls over time, and they apportioned the money from the new tolls to all these other projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, so let’s move on to our next question. And we have a few about the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge specifically, which, again, not surprising, because, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Commission, the Bay Bridge carries more than a third of all the state-owned bridge traffic, something like 42 million cars or so crossed in 2022–2023 fiscal year. Let’s hear our first question about it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Andrés and I live in San Francisco. My question is why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they open it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, that’s a tragic story, actually. But first, I want to say I know exactly what he’s talking about. When you’re approaching the Bay Bridge toll plaza, especially if it’s not super crowded, right? You’re approaching at some speed, and you’re kind of lining up what lane you’re in. And then all of a sudden, there’s this one lane that’s closed, and you might have to change out of that lane to get into one of the other ones. So what happened there was that toll booth was wrecked, and the toll taker inside was killed when a truck smashed into it in December 2017. And Caltrans afterward decided not to rebuild immediately. The damage was really extreme. And a construction project in the toll plaza brings a lot of complications with it. The toll booth was still not fixed at the beginning of the pandemic in early 2020. And there was a big change in how tolls were collected at that point. All the toll takers were removed from the plaza, as well as all the other toll bridges around the region, and toll collection became automated. So there was little need to replace that lane at that point, right? You still have 16 plus other lanes that drivers can use. And, you know, the pandemic started five years ago, and you would think, well, maybe there’s time to go in and do that work. Well, there’s actually a plan to replace the entire toll plaza. So that’s why it’s not getting done now. And what’s going to replace the toll plaza? Something called open road tolling. You can see how that’s going to work if you go to the north side of the toll plaza, where there are a couple of carpool lanes. They’re actually called high occupancy vehicle lanes for buses and carpools. And they’ve got overhead toll tag readers that you can drive through going 60 miles an hour, and your toll tags will be read automatically. And so this technology is going to come to the Bay Bridge and other Bay Area bridges in the next two or three years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, let’s move on to our next question, which also has to do with a lane on the Bay Bridge, not too far away from the one we’ve been talking about. Listener Sam wrote in with this: “Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled busses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too?” Dan, what have you got on this?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So there are a couple parts to this question. I asked John Goodwin from the MTC what the story is with this lane, and he answered with a delightful email. I’m going to read from that. “Outside of weekday commute hours, that right-hand carpool lane can be lawfully used only by buses.” So, let’s stop there. Only by busses. Everybody else is not legal. So if you see cars over there, they’re actually breaking the law. He goes on to say, “Every one of the drivers in that constant stream of cars you cite is a scofflaw, a miscreant, and a scoundrel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Burn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>OK burn, exactly. So it’s a little judgmental, but it is very clear. You can only use that lane during carpool hours. That’s part one of the answer. But Sam is also asking, is there any enforcement there? And the answer is yes. The CHP is under contract with the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to pull drivers over when they’re violating the toll pool regulations. If the CHP is there and they pull you over, yes, you’re gonna get a ticket and you’re gonna get hit with a several hundred dollar fine. So essentially you’re taking your chances if you do that. Sam asked about the photo enforcement that’s there. Well, the photo equipment that’s there is not there for any kind of enforcement. It’s there to collect your toll. So if you drive through there in a non-carpool hour, that equipment will see you, it will record your license plate and you will be charged a toll. That’s all that will happen there. But remember, once you get through that point, sure, you’ve paid your $8 toll on the Bay Bridge, watch out for the CHP just waiting for you down the road.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This next question takes us across the bridge to the San Francisco side of things now, still on the Bay Bridge, though, and still in the westbound direction. On the upper deck, there are structures on both sides of the roadway, and they kind of look like shelters of some sort. They have sort of openings the size of garage doors. And we’ve had a few listeners write in asking what they were. Now, I actually dug into this question a few years ago and Caltrans told me that they were once bus stops back from the era when buses could stop on the bridge, and they haven’t been used since probably about the 1960s. Dan, I was hoping you could kind of take us back to this era of bus stops on the bridge and even commuter trains on the Bay Bridge. Just what did the Bay Bridge look like in the ’60s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So to begin with, the bridge was configured to have two-way traffic on the top deck, three lanes going in each direction. You also had to pay a toll each way. So you’d pay a toll coming into San Francisco and you’d pay a toll when you got back to the East Bay. That sounds like a treat, doesn’t it? And on the lower deck, there were train tracks for commuter train: The Key System, the Sacramento Northern, and the interurban electric railways all ran into the old Transbay Terminal across those tracks. There were also lanes set aside for truck traffic. No truck traffic was allowed on the upper deck. When the Key System abandoned service in the late 1950s, 1958 to be exact, a big project was undertaken to reconfigure how the bridge worked. So those train tracks were removed from the lower deck, and the two decks were made one way. Westbound traffic on the upper deck, eastbound traffic on the lower deck, just the way we see it today. And there were all sorts of little differences to the way the bridge worked. So as you said, yes, there were bus stops at the beginning of the bridge, on both sides actually and those were done away with when the bridge was reconfigured in October 1963.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: “Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with 80, i.e., 880, 680, 280, 580?” And I have to admit, as somebody who, you know, gets around our region by car quite a bit, all those 80s can be sort of confusing. It makes me think of how Olympian boxer George Foreman famously named all five of his sons George, and I’ve always wondered what it’s like to live in a house with five Georges, six Georges. So Dan, why all these 80s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So, you know, we actually have encountered this topic before in the Bay Curious newsletter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Which I’ll gently remind listeners they can subscribe to at BayCurious.org. Halfway down the page, just look for the big pink box!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The simple explanation for this numbering system, all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. So Interstate 80 is the main drag, right? That’s the one that goes all the way across the country to the George Washington Bridge in New York City. And it ends right there in San Francisco where U.S. 101 comes in and heads south. And all these other 80s, the 580, the 680, the 280, 780 in the North Bay, those are all considered to be branches of one type or another of Interstate 80. There are two kinds of these branch routes. The ones that begin with even numbers, like 280, 680, and 880, are considered to be loop routes that provide a way around the periphery of the region. And I’ll observe while I say those numbers that none of those are really loop routes in and of themselves. Although 280 and 680 kind of make a loop. 880 is really a straight shot from Oakland down to State Highway 17 and San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ones that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they’re basically to connect busy routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so we’re moving a bit north of the Bay Bridge now, on 580 I will add, to answer this question about the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil Narodick: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Phil Narodick. I live in Berkeley and here’s my question: There’s a third lane on the eastbound span of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Now Dan, the answer for this one might benefit from a little bridge history first — because the third lane in both directions on that bridge has had a number of uses over the years. Can you take us back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>This bridge opened in 1956 with three lanes in each direction, right? Upper deck, westbound, lower deck, eastbound. We had a really bad drought in 1976 and 1977. Marin was out of water. So where was it going to get water? An agreement was made for East Bay MUD to build a pipeline across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Where did they put it? They put it in the right-hand lane of the upper deck. So, that lane was taken away, and it went from a three-lane to a two-lane bridge right there. Now, the pipeline was sort of a desperation measure and was very useful, but it was only needed for less than a year. And then it was taken out five years later, but traffic was never restored to that right-hand lane on the upper deck. It just became kind of a breakdown lane. And then a few years after that, on the lower deck, for no reason that I can actually determine, Caltrans decided to close the right-hand lane on the lower deck as well. There’s no reason given for it, except for the fact there wasn’t enough traffic to justify it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That changed a few years ago when Caltrans and other agencies started a pilot project to restore a third lane of traffic on the lower deck, the eastbound deck that Phil is talking about. And the reasons for doing that were that there’s enough congestion in the afternoon commute headed back to Contra Costa County from the North Bay, that something had to be done about it and restoring that lane seemed to be a possible answer. So, there is a project to get that done. The lane opened, as I say, a few years ago. And the simple answer from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission is Caltrans operates that lane and they open it from 2 to 7 every day, including weekends. Those are the operational hours, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Why would you have a lane closed at other times of the day?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Oh yeah, well, the reason you would see the lane closed at some times of day is because that third lane could still be used for construction activities, right? There’s lots of maintenance that happens on the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, and so there are other things that that lane can be used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now while we’re talking about this, the third lane on the upper deck has been in the news a lot lately, can you give us a quick update on what’s going on up there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The upper deck is a focus of attention right now because there’s a bike and pedestrian path in that right-hand lane now that went into service in 2019 as part of a pilot project. And it’s proven to be, I mean, it depends on who you ask. Cyclists absolutely love it. It’s gotten more use than any of the other bridge bike paths in the Bay Area. But there are questions about whether it’s making congestion worse in the morning hours going from Contra Costa County into Marin. There’s a proposal that would actually remove that bike lane four days of the week and restore it as a breakdown lane so that if somebody has a problem up there they get flat tire, run out of gas, have a little collision, they can pull over to the side, and they don’t impede traffic in the other two lanes. That’s been a big problem up there. And I want to say, this is a hugely fraught topic. I mean, there have been studies done about whether that bike lane has affected traffic and the delay getting onto the bridge in the morning. And the conclusion is, it hasn’t made a lot of difference. But there are people who feel passionately that it is really screwing with their lives and they wanna see it change. So that’s what’s going on up there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music Cue\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And we’ve reached the final question of this transit lightning round, and it’s about license plates. Now I’ve always had sort of the boring numbers and letters assembly that is randomly assigned, but all over our state, you will find vanity plates where people have paid a little extra to be able to choose what their license plate says. And one listener feels like they’re seeing more of these plates in California…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>This is Marissa from Oakland, and I’m wondering why there are so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. Living in Massachusetts for years after that, I didn’t see very many either. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look. If I’m walking down the street, if I’m in a car, and I was just wondering why that is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well there was actually a study about this. Done a while ago. It’s the only study I can find — a survey actually, let’s call it a survey. And it was done in 2007 and what it found was California at that time ranked 22nd of the 50 states in the number of personalized or vanity plates. The number one state was Virginia. 16% of the plates in Virginia were personalized plates. And then given Marissa’s question and her regional roots, this is kind of interesting because the top 10 includes several states in the Northeast. Including New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut, I think she said that’s her home state. And New Jersey. So, they’re out there somewhere. Maybe they were all parked up when you were looking. Of course, this was a survey done a long time ago and we did reach out to the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if there were some updated statistics. And one thing they could tell us for sure is that there are more personalized plates on the road than there used to be. So, in 2007, California had 1.1 million personalized plates, it now has about 1.6 million, so that’s quite a bit more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But it’s interesting if California’s vanity license plate incidence has grown since the study was done, that’s kind of a trend happening across the country. So it could just be that as time has gone on, more people are choosing to do vanity plates, maybe they’re just more fun. There’s more interest in customizing your vehicle or something along those lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well I think that’s possible. I think something that you and I were talking about in casual conversation is how much people have to pay. Virginia is famous for charging very little for a personalized plate, I think they charge only $10. And in California to get one of those basic plates, it costs $53 to have it personalized. And then you have to pay $43 each year on an ongoing basis. If you want to get one of those specialized plates, like the ones for Yosemite National Park, it costs $103 and $83 on an ongoing basis, so you know that’s kind of steep for a lot people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Have you thought about what your vanity plate would be if you were to get one?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Um…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>I think that’s too many letters, actually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Well, Dan Brekke, thank you so much for joining us today. I really appreciate you sharing all your knowledge with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, thanks for having me, you know, I really love being here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Two reminders on the way out — first, we have a Bay Curious Trivia night coming up on April 1, so be sure to round up a date or a few friends, and grab your tickets for that. That can be done at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/live\">KQED.org/live\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, we are working on an episode about the best places to take kids in the Bay Area and we would love your help! Do you have a favorite playground? Or a restaurant that’s sneakily kid-friendly? Or maybe that business where you can take your kiddos to burn off some energy? If so, share the knowledge! Send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> and tell us — your name, the city where you live, and your tip! You can also call our hotline and leave a message… how retro! … the number is 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>The show is produced by …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Christopher Beale:\u003c/strong> Christopher Beale\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Katrina Schwartz\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Maha Sanad:\u003c/strong> Maha Sanad\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katie Sprenger: \u003c/strong>Katie Sprenger\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jen Chien: \u003c/strong>Jen Chien\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alana Walker:\u003c/strong> Alana Walker\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Holly Kernan: \u003c/strong>Holly Kernan\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil: \u003c/strong>And everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m your host Olivia Allen-Price. Be well, my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#Transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing we know for sure about the Bay Curious audience is that you have lots of questions about how we get around the Bay Area. From the very start of the podcast 10 years ago next month, transportation has been one of the topics that surface again and again and again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received a lot of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11798346/why-are-bart-escalators-nearly-always-broken-and-how-did-they-build-those-tunnels\">questions\u003c/a> about BART, including \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11932690/why-doesnt-bart-go-more-places\">why it doesn’t go more places\u003c/a> and how the process of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11986396/when-bart-was-built-people-and-houses-had-to-go\">clearing businesses and homes from its route\u003c/a> worked when the system was built.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve received questions about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11892152/the-tale-of-the-bay-bridge-troll\">the Bay Bridge troll(s)\u003c/a>. And about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11864205/is-that-a-ghost-freeway-on-the-peninsula-and-are-our-highways-filthier-than-ever\">why there’s so much trash\u003c/a> on Bay Area freeways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So now, after 10 years and a total of 10,000 questions from you, our loyal audience, we’re returning to the transportation theme by answering a bunch of bridge-related questions and one inquiry that touches on how Bay Area residents express their personalities on our license plates. Here goes:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jump straight to:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#A\">Where does the toll money from Bay Area Bridges go?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#B\">Why is there a closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#C\">Is the \u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\">westbound\u003c/a>\u003ca href=\"#C\"> right carpool lane onto the Bay Bridge really ‘buses only’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#D\">Why do so many Bay Area freeway names end in ‘80’?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#E\">What’s with the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cstrong>\u003ca href=\"#F\">Why are there so many vanity license plates?\u003c/a>\u003c/strong>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11958608\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11958608\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aerial shot of cars at a series of toll booths on a bridge, with a $7 toll fee in a digital sign above the booths.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1634\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-2048x1307.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2023/08/GettyImages-1528848239-1920x1225.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles cross the toll plaza on the Bay Bridge during the afternoon commute in Oakland on June 26, 2023. \u003ccite>(Jane Tyska/Digital First Media/East Bay Times via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>First up, Dani Robillard has this question about the money we shell out when we drive across bridges in our region: \u003cem>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/em>\u003cbr>\nYour guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off, Dani. The tolls across the seven state-owned bridges in the Bay Area will bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I think the natural inclination is to think that the money collected when you drive through a toll plaza is going to be spent on the bridge you’re crossing, end of story. But the reality is more complicated and involves decisions transportation officials and Bay Area voters have made over the last half-century or so. The tolls we pay go to operating and maintaining the bridges — and to lots of other transportation-related things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seven of the eight toll bridges in the Bay Area — the Bay Bridge, Antioch, Benicia, Carquinez, Richmond-San Rafael, San Mateo and Dumbarton spans — are owned by the state of California. The money drivers pay is collected by an agency called \u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/about-mtc/authorities/bay-area-toll-authority-bata\">the Bay Area Toll Authority\u003c/a>, or BATA, which also makes decisions about how to spend the revenue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In making its spending decisions, BATA has numerous obligations. Those include paying for ongoing maintenance and upkeep of the bridges, long-term rehabilitation projects, and \u003ca href=\"https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.https://www.fitchratings.com/research/infrastructure-project-finance/fitch-rates-bata-series-2025-sr-toll-revs-aa-subrevs-aa-affirms-outstanding-rev-bonds-07-02-2025#:~:text=Fitch%20has%20affirmed%20BATA's%20%246.3,and%20all%20bonds%20is%20Stable.\">paying off bonds\u003c/a> floated to finance past projects like the $6.4 billion eastern span of the Bay Bridge. Last year, when tolls on the state-owned bridges were $7, BATA estimated that $4 of that charge was being spent in one way or another on the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But how about the other $3? That portion of your toll payment is going in all sorts of different directions due to a series of ballot measures that transportation officials and the Legislature have put before voters since the late 1980s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-1-rm-1\">Regional Measure 1\u003c/a>, passed in 1988, created a uniform $1 toll for all seven state-owned bridges. (Before Measure 1, tolls on the bridges ranged from 40 cents to $1.) The new funding was used for several bridge improvements but also for several major street and highway improvements, including the Richmond Parkway in Contra Costa County.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/funding/regional-funding/regional-measure-2\">Regional Measure 2\u003c/a>, passed in 2004, raised tolls again by $1 (bringing them to $3 because of a 1998 increase imposed to help pay for the eastern span of the Bay Bridge). The proceeds from RM2 helped pay for the fourth bore of the Caldecott Tunnel, the new Transbay (now Salesforce) Transit Center and other big capital projects. The measure continues to provide day-to-day operating funds for AC Transit’s 1T bus rapid transit line on International Boulevard and San Francisco Muni’s T-Third light rail line and other services. Some RM2 funds also help pay for pedestrian and bike projects near the bridges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11671240/10-things-to-know-regional-measure-3-the-proposed-bay-area-bridge-toll-increase\">Regional Measure 3\u003c/a>, passed in 2018, included $3 in toll increases that, as of Jan. 1 this year, brings the basic charge for crossing the state bridges to $8. RM3 is helping fund nearly three dozen projects and services around the region, including BART’s extension through downtown San José (coming in 2037, by current estimates), some of BART’s new train cars, improved ferry service, and freeway express lanes (toll lanes) in six different counties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ll mention in closing that the Golden Gate Bridge is owned and operated by a separate agency that has its own toll and budget policies and priorities, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.goldengate.org/\">Golden Gate Bridge, Highway and Transportation District\u003c/a>. According to the district’s fiscal 2024–25 budget, tolls make up about half of its $320 million of its revenue this year. It’s spending about one-third of that — $108 million — on bridge operations. Most of the rest of the budget, $166 million, is going to pay for the district’s bus and ferry service.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"B\">\u003c/a>That closed toll lane on the Bay Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11635414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11635414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/12/RS28347_IMG_1202-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vehicles approach the Bay Bridge Toll Plaza in Oakland on Dec. 5, 2017. Days before, a truck crashed into toll booth number 14 and killed worker Si Si Han. \u003ccite>(Farida Jhabvala Romero/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The next question comes from Andres Barraza: \u003cem>Why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they reopen it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The closure of that lane at the Bay Bridge toll plaza — Lane 14, to be exact — is a tragic story that goes back more than seven years. In the early morning of Dec. 2, 2017, a box truck slammed into the toll booth and killed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11635239/tollbooth-worker-killed-in-bay-bridge-crash-remembered-as-kind-generous\">the veteran toll taker there, 46-year-old Si Si Han\u003c/a>. The fact that the toll booth has never been rebuilt or the lane opened is due to a combination of circumstances.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area bridge officials and Caltrans reportedly determined that the loss of the lane did not have a major impact on traffic flow through the toll plaza. That was especially true after the onset of the pandemic and the dramatic drop in traffic on the bridge. More recently, the rationale for leaving the lane as it is has shifted: The entire toll plaza will be phased out at some point in the next few years with the introduction of “\u003ca href=\"https://mtc.ca.gov/operations/programs-projects/bridges/open-road-tolling\">open-road tolling\u003c/a>.” That’s a system that uses an overhead structure, called a gantry, equipped with cameras and tag-reading equipment that can record vehicles passing at highway speeds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You can get a little preview of how the system works on the two high-occupancy vehicle lanes on the north side of the Bay Area toll plaza, where carpool (and other) drivers currently zip beneath an overhead gantry equipped with cameras and tag readers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"C\">\u003c/a>And speaking of that high-occupancy vehicle lane… How legit is ‘buses only’?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032187\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"656\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-800x513.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-1020x653.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/GettyImages-1408768939-160x103.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">AC Transit buses roll toward the Bay Bridge in the carpool lane of the Eastshore Freeway in Berkeley on Thursday, May 10, 2018. \u003ccite>(Paul Chinn/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Sam wrote this: \u003cem>Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled buses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too? \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’ve wondered what’s going on with this lane, too, and when we got Sam’s question, we asked John Goodwin from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission (MTC) what the story is: The brief answer is that during weekday commute hours — between 5 a.m. and 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. — buses, carpools with three or more people, motorcycles and, for now, cars with valid DMV clean-air stickers — are all permitted to use the lane. Outside of those hours, \u003cem>only buses can lawfully use that lane.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for enforcement, the MTC contracts with the California Highway Patrol to enforce high-occupancy vehicle lanes. If you’re caught using that Bay Bridge lane outside the legal hours, you’ll be subject to a fine of $490 or more. (The same goes for violating carpool hours or passenger and decal requirements on any California HOV lane.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sam also mentions the photo toll equipment on that Bay Bridge carpool lane. Two things about that:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, drivers using the HOV lanes are supposed to have FasTrak tags, which are necessary to get the 50% discount that carpoolers get during weekday commute hours. Outside the designated carpool hours, when you’re violating the law by using the carpool lane, FasTrak will charge you a non-discounted toll for passing through the toll plaza.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, the photo equipment Sam mentions is used for toll collection, not carpool enforcement. The cameras, which are deployed on all the toll lanes at the Bay Bridge, serve as a sort of backup system for Fastrak. They capture license plate images for each passing vehicle and ensure that drivers who don’t have toll tags are charged for crossing the bridges like everyone else.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"D\">\u003c/a>Eighty! Eighty! Eighty!\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12003260\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12003260\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1298\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/GettyImages-1938578486-1536x1038.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view, cars travel along Interstate 80 on Jan. 16, 2024, in Berkeley. \u003ccite>(Justin Sullivan/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: \u003cem>Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with “80”? For instance, 880, 680, 280, 580. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The simple explanation for this numbering system is that all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. I-80 stretches from the George Washington Bridge in New York City to San Francisco, where it connects to U.S. 101 and heads south.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Under the federal government’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.fhwa.dot.gov/programadmin/interstate.cfm\">Interstate highway numbering system\u003c/a>, there are two kinds of these branch routes, each designated with the three-digit numbers Martin mentions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with even numbers. like 280, 680, and 880 in the Bay Area, are rather arbitrarily considered to be full or partial belt routes. Those are highways that traditionally run around the circumference of a region. The best example I know of, a true belt route, is Interstate 495 around Washington, D.C. Arguably, Interstates 680 and 280 in our region are peripheral routes, but there’s no way in the world you could put Interstate 880, from Oakland to San José, in that category. At least in our learned opinion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The routes that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they connect other major routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980. Most of these routes are very short. I-980, just west of downtown Oakland, is just 2 miles long; 380, which connects 280 with U.S. 101 at San Francisco International Airport, measures a little over 3 miles, and 780, between 80 and 680 in Solano County, is 6.5 miles. But sometimes these routes are really, really long: Interstate 580 runs 75 miles from Interstate 5 in San Joaquin County all the way to U.S. 101 in Marin.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"E\">\u003c/a>The saga of the third lanes on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11971910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11971910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/01/240108-RSR-BIKE-LANE-MD-08-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Traffic on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge on Jan. 8, 2024. \u003ccite>(Martin do Nascimento/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Listener Phil Narodick asks: \u003cem>There’s a third lane on the lower deck of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To answer that, maybe a little bridge history is in order.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge opened in 1956, both its upper, westbound deck and lower, eastbound deck were configured with three lanes of traffic. Twenty years later, nature intervened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California suffered through one of its worst droughts in 1976 and 1977. It was so dry for so long that Marin County’s reservoirs threatened to dry up. To respond to that crisis, water officials worked out an agreement to build a water pipeline across the upper deck of the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to help relieve Marin’s shortage. That arrangement took the right lane on the westbound desk out of service. As it turned out, the pipeline was used for less than a year because the rains returned in the fall of 1977. A few years later, the pipeline was removed. But the space it occupied was turned into a lane for breakdowns and maintenance crews.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK — that was the upper deck, and we’ll have more to say about that in a moment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the lower deck that Phil is asking about, something similar happened, only without the pipeline. In 1980, Caltrans decided to reduce traffic from three lanes to two and use the right lane for motorist emergencies and bridge maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And there things stood until about a decade ago when Caltrans and other agencies came up with a proposal to restore that third lane of traffic on the lower, eastbound deck. The reason: Afternoon commute congestion had grown so acute that traffic was backing up not only across the bridge but back along Interstate 580 to U.S. 101 and to surface streets in San Rafael. By \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11648255/san-rafael-richmond-bridge-eastbound-lane\">opening up a third lane\u003c/a>, traffic engineers reasoned, congestion could be reduced. The plan was adopted, and the restored third lane opened in 2018. It turned out the traffic engineers were right: Opening that lane during the afternoon commute resulted in a dramatic reduction in congestion for the corridor, one that continues today in part because of reduced traffic in the wake of the pandemic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As to the operating hours for that third lane: The Metropolitan Transportation Commission’s John Goodwin said Caltrans opens the lane from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m. seven days a week. He adds that Caltrans can adjust third-lane operations based on real-time conditions, but said that has seldom happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now let’s revisit the upper deck: As part of the same four-year pilot project proposal that restored the eastbound third lane, transportation agencies \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11786768/richmond-san-rafael-bridge-bike-walking-path\">installed a bike and pedestrian pathway\u003c/a> on the old right lane of the westbound upper deck. The upper deck path opened in 2019. With the exception of the Golden Gate Bridge, which is extremely popular with bike riders, the Richmond-San Rafael path has become the most used bridge crossing for cyclists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it’s also become \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11971935/richmond-bridge-bike-path-has-an-amazing-view-and-an-uncertain-future\">an object of controversy\u003c/a>. Critics of the lane contend that it’s the main culprit in the long backups that form most weekday mornings as westbound traffic makes its way through Richmond to the bridge. At the same time, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bcdc.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/sites/354/2024/12/2025-03-20-Richmond-San-Rafael-Bridge-PATH-Study-Phase-II-Attachment-A.pdf\">a study by UC Berkeley researchers (PDF)\u003c/a> hired to analyze the path’s effect on traffic found it hasn’t had a major impact on congestion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The critics, including the Bay Area Council business group and the Marin County Board of Supervisors, have urged Caltrans and the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to take action to relieve the congestion. The resulting MTC plan would close the path four days a week and use it as a breakdown lane. Bike riders and pedestrians would get to use it from Friday through Sunday, the path’s most popular days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ultimate decision on whether that plan will go forward rests with the Bay Conservation and Development Commission, which will consider the issue on April 3.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>\u003ca id=\"F\">\u003c/a>Why so many vanity license plates?\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12032191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12032191\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/240128-49ersFans-07-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">49ers fan Bobbie Lince holds her license plate at a tailgate party outside Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara on Jan. 28, 2024, before an NFC Championship Game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Detroit Lions. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>And one final question for this episode, from Marissa in Oakland. She asks: Why are there so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To our surprise, someone actually did a national survey on this. That’s very helpful in terms of giving Marissa what looks and feels like a solid answer. However, the study, carried out by the American Association of Motor Vehicle Administrators and a vanity license plate site called LCNS2ROM.com, was done in 2007. So does it reflect \u003cem>current\u003c/em> reality? We can’t swear that it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But what we can say is back then, one state stood out above all others for the popularity of personalized license plates: Virginia. \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20080727002335/http:/www.lcns2rom.com/vanityplatesurvey.htm\">The survey\u003c/a>, which we tracked down on the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, found that 16.19% of all plates issued there, one in six, were personalized. Virginia was followed by New Hampshire, Illinois, Nevada, Montana, Maine, Connecticut, New Jersey, North Dakota and Vermont. That’s your top ten for vanity license plates.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Where did California come in? Twenty-second, with about 3.5% of all plates issued.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We can offer at least a partial update for those California numbers. As of 2007, the old survey said, the state had issued about 1.1 million personalized license plates. The Department of Motor Vehicles said that number is now 1,650,184, a 50% increase over the last 18 years. With about 32 million vehicles on the road, that would mean about 5% are carrying personalized plates. What we don’t know is where California ranks now among the other 49 states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"Transcript\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, Olivia Allen-Price here. And I want to take you back for a moment to April 2015, when you could have been scanning the radio …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(sounds of switching through the radio dial)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And settled on 88.5 KQED to hear the very first airing of a Bay Curious story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Archival Tape of KQED’s Joshua Johnson: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>OK, time for something fun. Today, we’re launching a special series about local oddities, mysterious and curiosities. We’re calling it Bay Curious.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>It was about this old wrecked car that hikers pass often on Mount Tamalpais. Reporter/Producer, Katrina Schwartz, and I hiked out to the wreck to check it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>\u003cem>Olivia and Katrina in archival tape: \u003c/em>\u003c/strong>\u003cem>Holy cow that’s it! What a piece of junk. That is really unexpected…\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In some ways, that was the perfect story to kick off what is now nearly a 10-year-old journalism experiment. It took us through some Bay Area history. We learned about car manufacturing in the 1940s. We talked to some fascinating people. It was a story that had all the elements that I hope Bay Curious has come to be known for. And … it was about a \u003cem>car\u003c/em>. Which, really, isn’t that surprising. Because, over the years, more than 10,000 questions have poured in from you, our dear audience, and \u003cem>transportation\u003c/em> is one of the topics that we get the most questions about. Maybe it’s because getting around our region … has some pain points? I dunno.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Today, as we barrel toward our 10-year anniversary, we thought we’d answer a bunch of your transit questions that have been lingering in the Bay Curious inbox. Like “how much toll money gets collected on our bridges, and where does it go?” “Why has one toll booth been closed on the Bay Bridge for years?” And “Are there more vanity license plates in California than in other places?” It’s a transit lighting round, so hold on tight, and we will get going to pick up some answers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Start and rev engine in background)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When a transit question strikes, KQED editor and reporter Dan Brekke is the person that I always go to to ask. He’s been covering transportation in the Bay Area for more than 20 years, and he’s, I think it’s fair to say, an OG transit nerd. Welcome, Dan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Hi Olivia\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So we have a pile of questions to get through this morning, but more than half of them have to do with our bridges. So I want to start there. Now, every time you cross one of our major bridges, you should probably hear a little ka-ching sound go off because they all come with a toll, usually somewhere in the vicinity of $8 to $10 … less if you’ve been smart enough to carpool. Now, multiply that by thousands of motorists crossing those bridges every hour, and a listener and longtime San Francisco resident, named Dani Robillard, has been seeing dollar signs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>Where does all that toll money from Bay Area bridges go? It’s got to be over $20 million a week, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>What do you know, Dan?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So that money goes to maintaining the bridges and to lots of other things. Your guess of $20 million a week isn’t too far off. There’s an organization called the Bay Area Toll Authority. And that’s an agency that was created to collect all the revenue from all the bridges — the seven state-owned bridges — and then to allocate it for various projects that we’ve agreed to as a region over the years. So they say that they bring in about $880 million in the current fiscal year, and that comes out to about $17 million a week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Can we dig in a little bit deeper because Dani wants us to break it down further…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dani Robillard: \u003c/strong>We have so many bridges and prices are increasing at an alarming rate. And I just really question, when I see the roads, and at times the conditions of our cities, where does all that money go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I always thought the toll was to pay for the bridge. And once the bridge was paid off, the toll maybe go away. But that’s clearly not the case because some of these bridges have been around for decades and I imagine some of these bridges are paid off by now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, the bridges themselves might be paid off. You know, the Bay Bridge opened nearly 90 years ago. Next year will be the 90th anniversary. But, you know, there are ongoing costs, right? You build something that big and complex, and you have many needs over the years just to keep it up, to pave it, to reconfigure it if you need to. And so when you look at the toll dollars we spend going into this fiscal year, the Bay Area Toll Authority said about 60% of the toll funds were going into bridge stuff, right, all the things that I was just talking about, but the other 40% goes to a bunch of things that have, on the surface may be little to do with the bridges themselves but are all very important to the Bay Area’s transportation network. And those are things that range from BART’s brand new fleet of cars, to bike and pedestrian paths around the Bay Area and everything in between. So how did we decide to apportion 40% of those funds that we’re paying at the toll booth for these other things that you don’t see on the bridge? Well, there have been a series of regional measures called, cleverly enough, regional measures one, two, and three that we passed in 1988, 2004, and 2018. Those measures did two things. They raised tolls over time, and they apportioned the money from the new tolls to all these other projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, so let’s move on to our next question. And we have a few about the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge specifically, which, again, not surprising, because, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Commission, the Bay Bridge carries more than a third of all the state-owned bridge traffic, something like 42 million cars or so crossed in 2022–2023 fiscal year. Let’s hear our first question about it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Andrés and I live in San Francisco. My question is why has that single lane at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge been closed for years, and why won’t they open it again? Every time I’m passing, somebody’s always making a last second swerve to avoid the closed lane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, that’s a tragic story, actually. But first, I want to say I know exactly what he’s talking about. When you’re approaching the Bay Bridge toll plaza, especially if it’s not super crowded, right? You’re approaching at some speed, and you’re kind of lining up what lane you’re in. And then all of a sudden, there’s this one lane that’s closed, and you might have to change out of that lane to get into one of the other ones. So what happened there was that toll booth was wrecked, and the toll taker inside was killed when a truck smashed into it in December 2017. And Caltrans afterward decided not to rebuild immediately. The damage was really extreme. And a construction project in the toll plaza brings a lot of complications with it. The toll booth was still not fixed at the beginning of the pandemic in early 2020. And there was a big change in how tolls were collected at that point. All the toll takers were removed from the plaza, as well as all the other toll bridges around the region, and toll collection became automated. So there was little need to replace that lane at that point, right? You still have 16 plus other lanes that drivers can use. And, you know, the pandemic started five years ago, and you would think, well, maybe there’s time to go in and do that work. Well, there’s actually a plan to replace the entire toll plaza. So that’s why it’s not getting done now. And what’s going to replace the toll plaza? Something called open road tolling. You can see how that’s going to work if you go to the north side of the toll plaza, where there are a couple of carpool lanes. They’re actually called high occupancy vehicle lanes for buses and carpools. And they’ve got overhead toll tag readers that you can drive through going 60 miles an hour, and your toll tags will be read automatically. And so this technology is going to come to the Bay Bridge and other Bay Area bridges in the next two or three years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>All right, let’s move on to our next question, which also has to do with a lane on the Bay Bridge, not too far away from the one we’ve been talking about. Listener Sam wrote in with this: “Outside rush hour, the right carpool lane westbound onto the Bay Bridge is labeled busses only, but there’s always a constant stream of cars. Do they not enforce that at all, even with photo tolls? Can I use it too?” Dan, what have you got on this?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So there are a couple parts to this question. I asked John Goodwin from the MTC what the story is with this lane, and he answered with a delightful email. I’m going to read from that. “Outside of weekday commute hours, that right-hand carpool lane can be lawfully used only by buses.” So, let’s stop there. Only by busses. Everybody else is not legal. So if you see cars over there, they’re actually breaking the law. He goes on to say, “Every one of the drivers in that constant stream of cars you cite is a scofflaw, a miscreant, and a scoundrel.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Burn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>OK burn, exactly. So it’s a little judgmental, but it is very clear. You can only use that lane during carpool hours. That’s part one of the answer. But Sam is also asking, is there any enforcement there? And the answer is yes. The CHP is under contract with the Metropolitan Transportation Commission to pull drivers over when they’re violating the toll pool regulations. If the CHP is there and they pull you over, yes, you’re gonna get a ticket and you’re gonna get hit with a several hundred dollar fine. So essentially you’re taking your chances if you do that. Sam asked about the photo enforcement that’s there. Well, the photo equipment that’s there is not there for any kind of enforcement. It’s there to collect your toll. So if you drive through there in a non-carpool hour, that equipment will see you, it will record your license plate and you will be charged a toll. That’s all that will happen there. But remember, once you get through that point, sure, you’ve paid your $8 toll on the Bay Bridge, watch out for the CHP just waiting for you down the road.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This next question takes us across the bridge to the San Francisco side of things now, still on the Bay Bridge, though, and still in the westbound direction. On the upper deck, there are structures on both sides of the roadway, and they kind of look like shelters of some sort. They have sort of openings the size of garage doors. And we’ve had a few listeners write in asking what they were. Now, I actually dug into this question a few years ago and Caltrans told me that they were once bus stops back from the era when buses could stop on the bridge, and they haven’t been used since probably about the 1960s. Dan, I was hoping you could kind of take us back to this era of bus stops on the bridge and even commuter trains on the Bay Bridge. Just what did the Bay Bridge look like in the ’60s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So to begin with, the bridge was configured to have two-way traffic on the top deck, three lanes going in each direction. You also had to pay a toll each way. So you’d pay a toll coming into San Francisco and you’d pay a toll when you got back to the East Bay. That sounds like a treat, doesn’t it? And on the lower deck, there were train tracks for commuter train: The Key System, the Sacramento Northern, and the interurban electric railways all ran into the old Transbay Terminal across those tracks. There were also lanes set aside for truck traffic. No truck traffic was allowed on the upper deck. When the Key System abandoned service in the late 1950s, 1958 to be exact, a big project was undertaken to reconfigure how the bridge worked. So those train tracks were removed from the lower deck, and the two decks were made one way. Westbound traffic on the upper deck, eastbound traffic on the lower deck, just the way we see it today. And there were all sorts of little differences to the way the bridge worked. So as you said, yes, there were bus stops at the beginning of the bridge, on both sides actually and those were done away with when the bridge was reconfigured in October 1963.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music transition\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Our next question comes from Martin Aguilera, and he wants to know: “Why do so many Bay Area freeways end with 80, i.e., 880, 680, 280, 580?” And I have to admit, as somebody who, you know, gets around our region by car quite a bit, all those 80s can be sort of confusing. It makes me think of how Olympian boxer George Foreman famously named all five of his sons George, and I’ve always wondered what it’s like to live in a house with five Georges, six Georges. So Dan, why all these 80s?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>So, you know, we actually have encountered this topic before in the Bay Curious newsletter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Which I’ll gently remind listeners they can subscribe to at BayCurious.org. Halfway down the page, just look for the big pink box!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The simple explanation for this numbering system, all those three-digit routes are considered to be branches of Interstate 80 in the Bay Area. So Interstate 80 is the main drag, right? That’s the one that goes all the way across the country to the George Washington Bridge in New York City. And it ends right there in San Francisco where U.S. 101 comes in and heads south. And all these other 80s, the 580, the 680, the 280, 780 in the North Bay, those are all considered to be branches of one type or another of Interstate 80. There are two kinds of these branch routes. The ones that begin with even numbers, like 280, 680, and 880, are considered to be loop routes that provide a way around the periphery of the region. And I’ll observe while I say those numbers that none of those are really loop routes in and of themselves. Although 280 and 680 kind of make a loop. 880 is really a straight shot from Oakland down to State Highway 17 and San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ones that begin with odd numbers are considered to be spur or radial routes and they’re basically to connect busy routes. And so we have 380, 580, 780 and 980.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>OK, so we’re moving a bit north of the Bay Bridge now, on 580 I will add, to answer this question about the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil Narodick: \u003c/strong>Hi my name is Phil Narodick. I live in Berkeley and here’s my question: There’s a third lane on the eastbound span of the Richmond Bridge that’s seemingly opened and closed based on the vibes. No rhyme or reason provided. What’s going on and why do they sometimes not want you to drive in it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Now Dan, the answer for this one might benefit from a little bridge history first — because the third lane in both directions on that bridge has had a number of uses over the years. Can you take us back?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>This bridge opened in 1956 with three lanes in each direction, right? Upper deck, westbound, lower deck, eastbound. We had a really bad drought in 1976 and 1977. Marin was out of water. So where was it going to get water? An agreement was made for East Bay MUD to build a pipeline across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Where did they put it? They put it in the right-hand lane of the upper deck. So, that lane was taken away, and it went from a three-lane to a two-lane bridge right there. Now, the pipeline was sort of a desperation measure and was very useful, but it was only needed for less than a year. And then it was taken out five years later, but traffic was never restored to that right-hand lane on the upper deck. It just became kind of a breakdown lane. And then a few years after that, on the lower deck, for no reason that I can actually determine, Caltrans decided to close the right-hand lane on the lower deck as well. There’s no reason given for it, except for the fact there wasn’t enough traffic to justify it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That changed a few years ago when Caltrans and other agencies started a pilot project to restore a third lane of traffic on the lower deck, the eastbound deck that Phil is talking about. And the reasons for doing that were that there’s enough congestion in the afternoon commute headed back to Contra Costa County from the North Bay, that something had to be done about it and restoring that lane seemed to be a possible answer. So, there is a project to get that done. The lane opened, as I say, a few years ago. And the simple answer from the Metropolitan Transportation Commission is Caltrans operates that lane and they open it from 2 to 7 every day, including weekends. Those are the operational hours, period.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Why would you have a lane closed at other times of the day?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Oh yeah, well, the reason you would see the lane closed at some times of day is because that third lane could still be used for construction activities, right? There’s lots of maintenance that happens on the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, and so there are other things that that lane can be used for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Now while we’re talking about this, the third lane on the upper deck has been in the news a lot lately, can you give us a quick update on what’s going on up there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>The upper deck is a focus of attention right now because there’s a bike and pedestrian path in that right-hand lane now that went into service in 2019 as part of a pilot project. And it’s proven to be, I mean, it depends on who you ask. Cyclists absolutely love it. It’s gotten more use than any of the other bridge bike paths in the Bay Area. But there are questions about whether it’s making congestion worse in the morning hours going from Contra Costa County into Marin. There’s a proposal that would actually remove that bike lane four days of the week and restore it as a breakdown lane so that if somebody has a problem up there they get flat tire, run out of gas, have a little collision, they can pull over to the side, and they don’t impede traffic in the other two lanes. That’s been a big problem up there. And I want to say, this is a hugely fraught topic. I mean, there have been studies done about whether that bike lane has affected traffic and the delay getting onto the bridge in the morning. And the conclusion is, it hasn’t made a lot of difference. But there are people who feel passionately that it is really screwing with their lives and they wanna see it change. So that’s what’s going on up there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music Cue\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>And we’ve reached the final question of this transit lightning round, and it’s about license plates. Now I’ve always had sort of the boring numbers and letters assembly that is randomly assigned, but all over our state, you will find vanity plates where people have paid a little extra to be able to choose what their license plate says. And one listener feels like they’re seeing more of these plates in California…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>This is Marissa from Oakland, and I’m wondering why there are so many vanity license plates in the Bay Area? I grew up in Connecticut and remember going on road trips hoping to find some on our route and never really saw any. Living in Massachusetts for years after that, I didn’t see very many either. But now that I’ve been in California for about 8 years, they’re literally everywhere I look. If I’m walking down the street, if I’m in a car, and I was just wondering why that is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well there was actually a study about this. Done a while ago. It’s the only study I can find — a survey actually, let’s call it a survey. And it was done in 2007 and what it found was California at that time ranked 22nd of the 50 states in the number of personalized or vanity plates. The number one state was Virginia. 16% of the plates in Virginia were personalized plates. And then given Marissa’s question and her regional roots, this is kind of interesting because the top 10 includes several states in the Northeast. Including New Hampshire, Maine, Connecticut, I think she said that’s her home state. And New Jersey. So, they’re out there somewhere. Maybe they were all parked up when you were looking. Of course, this was a survey done a long time ago and we did reach out to the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if there were some updated statistics. And one thing they could tell us for sure is that there are more personalized plates on the road than there used to be. So, in 2007, California had 1.1 million personalized plates, it now has about 1.6 million, so that’s quite a bit more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But it’s interesting if California’s vanity license plate incidence has grown since the study was done, that’s kind of a trend happening across the country. So it could just be that as time has gone on, more people are choosing to do vanity plates, maybe they’re just more fun. There’s more interest in customizing your vehicle or something along those lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well I think that’s possible. I think something that you and I were talking about in casual conversation is how much people have to pay. Virginia is famous for charging very little for a personalized plate, I think they charge only $10. And in California to get one of those basic plates, it costs $53 to have it personalized. And then you have to pay $43 each year on an ongoing basis. If you want to get one of those specialized plates, like the ones for Yosemite National Park, it costs $103 and $83 on an ongoing basis, so you know that’s kind of steep for a lot people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Have you thought about what your vanity plate would be if you were to get one?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Um…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>TRNSIT NRD!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>I think that’s too many letters, actually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Well, Dan Brekke, thank you so much for joining us today. I really appreciate you sharing all your knowledge with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dan Brekke: \u003c/strong>Well, thanks for having me, you know, I really love being here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Two reminders on the way out — first, we have a Bay Curious Trivia night coming up on April 1, so be sure to round up a date or a few friends, and grab your tickets for that. That can be done at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/live\">KQED.org/live\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, we are working on an episode about the best places to take kids in the Bay Area and we would love your help! Do you have a favorite playground? Or a restaurant that’s sneakily kid-friendly? Or maybe that business where you can take your kiddos to burn off some energy? If so, share the knowledge! Send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> and tell us — your name, the city where you live, and your tip! You can also call our hotline and leave a message… how retro! … the number is 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Andrés:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marissa: \u003c/strong>The show is produced by …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Christopher Beale:\u003c/strong> Christopher Beale\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/strong> Katrina Schwartz\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Maha Sanad:\u003c/strong> Maha Sanad\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katie Sprenger: \u003c/strong>Katie Sprenger\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jen Chien: \u003c/strong>Jen Chien\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Alana Walker:\u003c/strong> Alana Walker\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Holly Kernan: \u003c/strong>Holly Kernan\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Phil: \u003c/strong>And everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m your host Olivia Allen-Price. Be well, my friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/global-news-podcast/id135067274?mt=2",
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"rss": "https://podcasts.files.bbci.co.uk/p02nq0gn.rss"
}
},
"californiareport": {
"id": "californiareport",
"title": "The California Report",
"tagline": "California, day by day",
"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-California-Report-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareport",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 8
},
"link": "/californiareport",
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"amazon": "https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/26099305-72af-4542-9dde-ac1807fe36d5/kqed-s-the-california-report",
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}
},
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"id": "californiareportmagazine",
"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-California-Report-Magazine-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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}
},
"city-arts": {
"id": "city-arts",
"title": "City Arts & Lectures",
"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.cityarts.net/",
"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
"subscribe": {
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"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
"id": "closealltabs",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"order": 1
},
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"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"meta": {
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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}
},
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"id": "freakonomics-radio",
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"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
"subscribe": {
"npr": "https://rpb3r.app.goo.gl/4s8b",
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
"rss": "https://feeds.feedburner.com/freakonomicsradio"
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},
"fresh-air": {
"id": "fresh-air",
"title": "Fresh Air",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/381444908/podcast.xml"
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"here-and-now": {
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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},
"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/howIBuiltThis.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510313/how-i-built-this",
"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"npr": "https://rpb3r.app.goo.gl/3zxy",
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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},
"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/id1492194549",
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}
},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
"meta": {
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},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
}
},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
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"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "On Our Watch from NPR and KQED",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510360/podcast.xml"
}
},
"on-the-media": {
"id": "on-the-media",
"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
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"info": "One of public radio's most dynamic voices, Sam Sanders helped launch The NPR Politics Podcast and hosted NPR's hit show It's Been A Minute. Now, the award-winning host returns with something brand new, The Sam Sanders Show. Every week, Sam Sanders and friends dig into the culture that shapes our lives: what's driving the biggest trends, how artists really think, and even the memes you can't stop scrolling past. Sam is beloved for his way of unpacking the world and bringing you up close to fresh currents and engaging conversations. The Sam Sanders Show is smart, funny and always a good time.",
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